


Quarter Mile

by ZainClaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Family of Choice, Illegal Activities, M/M, Mechanic!Derek, Past Child Abuse, Street Racing, cop!Stiles, criminal!Derek, identity crisis, undercover cop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZainClaw/pseuds/ZainClaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh out of the police academy, Stiles is sent to L.A. to be put undercover in an attempt to infiltrate the world of street racing. His mark is Derek Hale—one of the most infamous criminals in the city—whose entire crew he has orders to bring in once he’s got the evidence.</p><p>Stiles never expected to bond with the members of Hale’s team, to gain their trust, to become a part of the family, and he most certainly didn’t expect to fall for the number one criminal he’s supposed to destroy.</p><p>(Fast & Furious AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this all started with [this](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/post/103040148697) post I made on Tumblr ages ago, and since then I've gone back and forth with this AU a hundred times. Paul Walker's passing hit me hard, and every time the urge to write this fic washed over me my feels would tell me _I can't do this._ And for the longest time I believed it. But then a boy took me to see Furious 7, and after a week of random crying sessions I realized _I need to do this._
> 
> I've done quite a bit of research for this fic, as well as watched a bunch of Hollywood movies, but I doubt I got it all right so I apologize in advance for any L.A.P.D. officer reading this who's disturbed by its inaccuracy. Sometimes I wanted to add more realism, and sometimes I just stuck to the same logic as shown in the F&F universe.
> 
> This is NOT a story about cars. I want to focus more on Derek being a criminal than, specifically, a street racer.
> 
>  **UPDATES** : Please check my [qm update](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/tagged/qm-update) tag to track my writing process.
> 
> *beats Rome to the chips*
> 
> Thanks to [Carrie](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/) for being my inside agent of Los Angeles as well as my beta. You're the sweetest!
> 
> Thanks to [Kisha](http://hushlittlefandoms.tumblr.com/) and [Amy](http://litoshernandos.tumblr.com/) for being the best cheerleaders.
> 
> Thanks to EVERYONE who keeps reminding me why I stay in fandom. Please don't stop, and I won't either.

[tumblr](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/)  •  [soundtrack](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/post/122004438937)  •  [FAQ](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/qmfaq)  •  [cars](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/cars)

 

 

Chapter One

 

There's a crack in the mirror. When Stiles first saw it he'd been one button away from calling the department to complain, but managed to refrain himself. It's not like he's the one paying for the place, and if things go as planned he won't be spending much time here anyway. And even though it would've been a joke, he's got a feeling that his bosses wouldn't appreciate his sense of humor. Especially not tonight.

His reflection is pale in the stark white light from the LED lamp above the sink, casting dark shadows beneath his eyes. It stares back at him with much less nerves evident on its face than he would've expected. Inside his chest a heart is racing, but on the surface he looks calm. Ready.

"My name is Stiles O'Brien," he tells the man in the mirror for probably the tenth time tonight. "I grew up in Exeter, a small town up north."

It's rare; to be put undercover straight out of the police academy. Most departments advice all graduates to spend two-three years on the job as a uniformed officer before going undercover, to get familiar with the area and its local criminals before taking on the risks of trying to infiltrate their ranks. But sometimes, to avoid officers getting recognized after patrolling the streets, new faces are recruited fresh out of the academy.

Stiles knows he got the job for three reasons.

One: he looks young. He probably could've been sent back to high school and people had believed he was still a teenager. His life could've easily been _21 Jump Street_. Young and reckless was what the department had been looking for, which pretty much sums up Stiles' exterior perfectly.

Two: the leader of this operation is his best friend's father. Scott was the one who convinced him to come to LA in the first place, and when Mr. McCall had needed a new LAPD officer to go under for his investigation, Stiles had been his first choice.

And three: he's an excellent liar.

"I'm Stiles O'Brien," he repeats, the statement growing more convincing each time he says it out loud. "Small town boy. Exeter."

Making his first name ‘Stiles' had not been his own idea, but he is forever grateful for it. Reacting to the wrong name out in the streets can get you killed, which is why most undercover agents keep their first name when being given their new identity. Stiles' real name is however too unusual when creating a low-key criminal out of thin air, and the chance of someone calling it out in his presence is very small—not to mention the likelihood of them actually pronouncing it correctly—so the department had decided to make ‘Stiles' his legal name.

His phone rings from the other room, and Stiles leaves the small bathroom with one last glance in the mirror.

The rest of the apartment matches the broken mirror perfectly. It's small and shaggy, reminding Stiles more of a cheap motel room than an actual apartment. Both the furniture and wallpapers have seen better days. Apart from the bathroom there are only two rooms: one bedroom and what must be considered a kitchen, separated by a wooden archway rather than a door. Needless to say: the place is only fit for one person.

It's not a home; it's a headquarters. Somewhere to go in case things go to shit and he needs to get the hell out of dodge. None of the criminals he'll come into contact with is supposed to know about it, which is why the department picked one of the shadiest places on the outskirts of the city. The owner has agreed to cooperate with them, in exchange for skipping jail time due to some illegal activities going down in his building, and has promised to keep an eye on the place whilst Stiles isn't there.

Stiles picks up his phone from the bedside table, checking the caller ID before accepting the call with a smirk.

"What's up?"

There's a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

"You know, I was hoping you'd to start addressing me properly, one of these days."

"I'm in character," Stiles shrugs, despite no one being around to see it. "O'Brien has no love for the authorities."

"Neither do you, most of the time."

"Guess you really picked the right guy for the job then," Stiles points out, starting to aimlessly wander around the small room.

Another sigh.

"I sure hope so, Stilinski."

The two of them had never been especially fond of each other, even back in Beacon Hills. Before Scott's parents got divorced, Mr. McCall had been around just as much as Melissa, and yet he and Stiles never really got along. Stiles had been a pretty reserved kid after his mother died, and the man had simply never managed to earn his trust. Not that he'd tried very hard.

Stiles mostly remembers him as someone who came to pick up Scott after school on the days when Melissa couldn't get away from the hospital. Someone who stuck his head through the door when they were playing on Scott's bedroom floor to bluntly inform his son dinner was ready, or that Stiles had to go home. He was rarely ever home, and even then he spent most of the time hiding in his office which Stiles had never seen the inside of. He's not even sure if Scott had.

It had been strange to see the man again after all these years, and in a way it felt like meeting him for the first time. And when McCall had offered his hand to welcome him on the case, it might've been the first time they looked each other in the eye.

"Checking in to see how my nerves are doing?" Stiles asks.

"That's Deaton's job. Mine is to tell you not to screw it up."

"I won't," Stiles says, flopping down on the bed and staring up at the gray ceiling.

"You know this isn't just about street racing. I wouldn't be here if it was."

Stiles _does_ know that. The department has been dealing with the city's increasing horde of common criminals long before the FBI got involved. Going undercover within the street racing world usually meant far less danger than trying to infiltrate most other gangs in a city like Los Angeles. In fact: some youths were even encouraged by their parents to get into the illegal sport that is street racing, just so they'd stay away from the drug dealings and guns. Stiles had found it strange at first, but later understood that most folks would rather see their kid going to jail than lying dead in the streets. In a neighborhood like this, everyone is looking for their thrill. For the cops, posing as a street racer is considered far less dangerous than mingling with gangsters.

But that was before one of the department's undercover agents was killed a little less than a month ago. The FBI had arrived, and Stiles had pretty much been snatched right from the LAPD's doorstep.

"I'm perfectly aware of what I signed up for," Stiles assures him. _"Sir."_

He thinks there's a huff on the other end, but he'll never be able to prove it.

"Remember to leave a report at least once a week over the phone, and _only_ over the phone. Wearing a wire would be too dangerous in this crowd. Allison will be managing this phone from now on. It's the only number you're allowed to contact us on."

"Got it," Stiles affirms. At first he'd been mildly disappointed about not wearing a wire—because that's how they do it in the movies—but then he'd realized the danger of getting caught with it. "And if there's an emergency I got your personal number."

"You're not supposed to have that," McCall mutters.

"Emergencies only. Promise."

McCall sighs over the line again, sounding defeated rather than frustrated.

"Just watch your back and do your job, Stilinski."

"That's the plan," Stiles agrees.

"Good. Now get some rest."

A click announces the end of the call before he's got the chance to give a comeback, so Stiles just scoffs and drops his arm on the bed, phone carelessly slipping from his hand. Tipping his head to the side, he glances up at the clock on the wall. 11 PM. For a moment he wonders if Deaton will call as well, but decides it's unlikely. Deaton was the last person he saw before coming here; the one who gave him the keys to the apartment and his car.

Correction: O'Brien's car.

He should probably take McCall's advice and try catch some sleep, because he can't sleep in tomorrow. He's got a plan. With a groan, Stiles forces himself back on his feet and pads back to the bathroom, resuming his mantra while brushing his teeth.

 

 

 

 

Five hours later he's back in bed, this time between the sheets and dressed in nothing but briefs. The apartment is swallowed by the dark, save from the square of moonlight that still manages to slip through the thin curtains. It's illuminating an insignificant patch of the wall, about three feet from where the clock is hanging, and it's slowly driving Stiles mad. Not because he needs to know what the time is—he's reached over to check on his phone about a dozen times already.

It's past 4 AM and he's wide awake.

Groaning in frustration, he sits up in bed and rubs the back of his neck. A voice of reason tells him that he should stay in bed, that sleep will come eventually; but after so many hours of just tossing and turning he's starting to doubt it. His body is too tense, his mind in complete overdrive. Thoughts are practically colliding with each other, pointlessly trying to predict what his first day on the job is going to be like. He can't even decide if he's more anxious or excited. Probably a bit of both.

With a final sigh he thinks _screw it_ and gets out of bed, trudging over to the desk to switch on the lamp. He grunts and squints at the blinding light breaking through the darkness, having to blink a few times in order for his eyes to adapt. There's a stack of police files on top of the desk, and he brings them to the center of the floor where he sits down, legs crossed. He opens all the files and spreads them out in front of him, making sure he can see all pictures and read all names from where he's sitting.

The faces staring back at him are so familiar to him by now, and though he's never met either of them in person, it feels like he has. On the nights when he actually falls asleep, he dreams about them.

Stiles lets his eyes sweep over the names he's come to know like the back of his hand. _Derek Hale. Cora Hale. Jackson Whittemore. Erica Reyes. Vernon Boyd._ _Isaac Lahey._ Together they make what the department likes to call The Hale Crew—or Hale's Crew for short—and are all possible suspects for the murder of the undercover agent who'd been trying to infiltrate the street racing world a few weeks ago. There are many more crews to investigate, of course, but next to Duke and his gang, Hale is the most infamous street racer in the entire city, and the department is convinced that if Hale didn't pull the trigger himself, he'll at least know who did. This world practically _revolves_ around Derek Hale.

He pulls Hale's file closer, leaning down to take a better look at the mug shot. It was taken a few years back, at Lompoc's prison where Hale spent two years after nearly beating a guy to death. There are pictures of the tortured man's face further inside the file, but Stiles doesn't need to turn the page. He isn't just familiar with this guy's file by now—he's memorized it. He knows Hale's eye color is green. He knows he's six feet tall. He knows Cora is his younger sister. He knows the man he almost killed was his own uncle. He knows his criminal record includes both grand theft auto and assault, not to mention all the countless traffic violations over the years.

Derek Hale is his mark. The others—Whittemore, Lahey, Reyes and the rest—they're just common criminals. Small fry. Neither of them have faced even half the jail time Derek has, but Stiles will have to earn all their trust in order to get close enough to Hale to get the information he needs. Most teams are considered families, with bonds that run far deeper than just the blood in their veins, and Stiles is well aware of the challenge ahead of him. It's not easy to infiltrate a crew in this crowd, which is where most officers before him have failed.

 _This is gonna be one hell of a ride,_ he thinks to himself while tilting his head to return Hale's glare.

 

 

 

 

When his alarm goes off at 7 AM he's back in bed, though he can't recall how he got there. Rubbing his eyes and angling his head, he finds the case files still spread out on the floor. The sun is up, peeking in from behind the curtains, and the distant noise of traffic reaches his ears. Stiles groans as he looks back to the large numbers glowing on his screen. He couldn't have gotten more than a few hours sleep.

Off to a great start, isn't he?

He manages to roll out of bed and get into the shower, eager to cool off. The sheets are clinging to his skin, sticky from his own sweat. There's not much food in the apartment—just a pack of sodas and some fruit in the fridge—but that's alright. He wasn't planning on having a big breakfast here anyway.

With his hair still dripping from the shower, Stiles makes quick work of getting ready to leave. He puts the files back into a neat pile on the desk, knowing someone from the department will come and pick them up during the day. He puts his wallet and phone in a drawer, making sure his new ones are in his pockets. He picks up the small piece of paper left by Deaton yesterday, repeating the address to himself before making a ball out of it and tossing it into the trashcan by the door.

_1234 Bellevue Avenue_

Lastly, he hides his Glock and badge in the bottom drawer. No reason for O'Brien to be carrying a gun.

Grabbing his new set of keys from the table, he gives the place one final sweep of his eye before leaving the apartment. His heart is beating a little too fast to be normal, and he still can't tell the worry or anticipation apart.

The Eclipse is waiting for him in the parking lot, its lime green paintwork glistening in the sun, and Stiles takes a moment to appreciate its beauty. He'd picked it out himself from the LAPD's impound yard, stating that it'd fit his new identity perfectly. They'd had to change the plates, of course, in case the racer they got it from recognized it in the streets, as well as giving it a paint job. Stiles isn't too fond of the green—personally he would've stuck to the dark shade of red—but he understands the importance of the car's transformation. It's more or less just as important as the name on his fake driver's license, because it's part of his new identity, too.

Once he's opened all the windows and got the air-conditioning running for a while, he can finally slip behind the wheel. When driving out of the parking lot, he realizes the job doesn't start the moment he lays eyes on Hale; it starts right now. Up till this moment, Stiles O'Brien hasn't existed, and he'll need to make a name out of himself in this city if he is to approach his target.

He dutifully stays below the speeding limit until he gets on the freeway. There, he can't help but adding more weight on his right leg, his hand practically itching on the stick until he allows it to shift gear.

Okay, so there's a fourth reason he was McCall's first choice for this job: he's got a heavy foot.

As unbelievable as it may seem considering his career choice, he'd been a real troublemaker in his youth. Back in Beacon Hills he'd started racing before he even got his driver's license, and while Stiles and the few other kids who spent their Saturday nights leaving track marks all over town got nothing on the big community of racers in LA, it was enough for them. He'd some time in juvie, which is just a fraction of the punishment he would've gotten if his dad hadn't been the sheriff.

Why his father kept helping him out of trouble time after time was something he never understood, and never will.

Recognizing the sound of a HKS turbo, Stiles turns his head to see a car coming up side by side in the lane next to him. It's a Veilside Mazda, and its dual paintwork in black and orange would make it stand out even among other race cars. Stiles locks eyes with the driver, who gives the Eclipse an appreciating look in return of Stiles' ogling. He's Asian, and definitely passes the young and reckless-check. He gives Stiles a nod, tapping the gas a few times, and it only takes a moment for Stiles to catch up and understand what he's on about.

He's done a lot of research in the last three weeks—learning the language and ways within the street racing community. He even took a lesson in different types of handshaking, needing to adapt to this world to 100% in order to convince everyone he belongs there. Your attitude, vocabulary, personality—it all matters.

And one of the things he learned was what's going down between him and the Asian right now. Sometimes street racers will spot each other in the crowd, thanks to how their cars usually stand out from the rest, and they'll challenge each other to drive faster. It's not a race, per say: just two drivers who wanna show off their vehicles and have some fun.

It's dangerous, and Stiles knows he shouldn't, but when the Asian boy finally steps on the gas, so does Stiles.

They zigzag through the cars they pass, staying side by side almost the entire time. Stiles can't wash the grin off his face, his whole body tingling with the thrill of having to concentrate not to lose control of the car. It's like having extended limbs, and he has to pay attention to every little movement he and the Eclipse make together. He looks over to share a wide grin with the other guy, and for a whole minute he forgets what the name in his wallet reads.

When spotting his exit, he lifts his hand in a wordless gesture. The Asian returns it, and accelerates while Stiles slows down before making his turn. It's a bittersweet yet satisfying goodbye, and Stiles can't help but wonder if he'll see the guy around in the upcoming weeks.

He arrives at his destination right before 10 o'clock, and parks his car in front of some houses at one side of the triangle. The market is across the street, right at the corner of Kensington Road and Bellevue Ave. The banner reads _Hale's_ _market & café_. Stiles has seen several surveillance photos of the place, and it feels strange to suddenly see it with his own eyes. Music is playing from somewhere inside, probably on an older stereo judging by the harsh sound of it. A few tables are set up on the pavement, with big parasols to shield the few customers from the blazing sun.

Stiles can definitely appreciate that idea; his shirt is already sticking to his skin, and he desperately longs for another shower.

Cora is sitting behind the bar, eyes dropped to her phone. Stiles recognizes her immediately, despite her hair being longer than in most photos in her file. If seeing the market in real life felt strange, it's nothing compared to seeing one of the criminals he's been studying for the past few weeks. His pulse quickens again, just like it had on the freeway, but he brushes it off and crosses the street without further delay.

"Please tell me you got curly fries," he pleads dramatically, sliding onto one of the bar stools across from Cora.

She lifts her gaze to lock eyes with him, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let me guess: you're actually looking for Jack In The Box," she suggests, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm looking for whoever's got curly fries. So if you do, I've reached my destination."

Huffing, Cora straightens up from where she's been hunched over the disk.

"You're in luck, kid. A friend of mine pushed me to make my own home-made recipe. I could heat some up for you."

"You're a saint," Stiles smiles, and she rolls her eyes as she moves over to the microwave.

As soon as she moves to the side, Stiles' eyes fall to the man sitting in the back room. Or rather: the back of a man's _head_ , because all he can see from where he's sitting is a mop of black hair, but he already knows who it is, and the realization makes his heart flutter so violently it nearly steals his breath. It's Derek Hale. He's sure of it. Not that he's surprised to find him here—he'd been _hoping_ to—but it still catches him off guard.

The market is a cover for his nightly activities, of course, but Stiles doubts it's fooling anyone. Only reason Hale isn't hauled down to the station in handcuffs already is because they don't have enough evidence. They know he's still racing—they've just never caught him in the act, and all racers are too loyal to rat each other out. Every single person who's been arrested for street racing within the last year has been involved with Hale one way or another, but none have provided any kind of information that could put him back behind bars.

Hale is clever, and he's got every fellow racer in the city protecting him. But while Stiles' main objective is to find out who killed the former officer, he still has orders to take down the Hale crew at the end of the investigation, if he's got enough evidence.

The sound of screeching tires and rumbling engines approaching pulls Stiles out of his thoughts, and he swirls around in his seat to see four cars lining up right down by the pavement, mindless of the 'no parking' sign only a few feet away. He's just about to turn back to the Hales when the first car door opens and a blonde whom Stiles immediately recognizes as Erica Reyes climbs out. Three guys emerge from the other cars, and Stiles can feel the pace of his heart speed up when recognizing all three of them.

 _Fuck me,_ he thinks to himself. _The whole crew is here._

Isaac Lahey is only nineteen, and Stiles is not prepared for how goddamn _tall_ he is. He looks even taller than Mr. McCall—and McCall is a very tall and full-grown man. Luckily the boy's curly hair still makes him look younger than the rest, so Stiles isn't too confused. He walks with a stride that's surprisingly confident for someone who presumably ran away from home at the age of fifteen, and Stiles suddenly finds himself curious as of how a boy like Lahey came to be a part of the city's most infamous racing crew.

Vernon Boyd looks just like he does on his photos, for which Stiles is grateful. He's wearing a sleeveless button-up with his shoulders and arms fully visible, and Stiles can't help but to admire his muscles. Reyes casually slips her hand into his, reminding Stiles of all the photos taken of them together. Their criminal records don't consist of much else than traffic violations, but he doubts that's their whole story.

Jackson Whittemore is exactly like Stiles imagined him: short-tempered and cocky. He can hear him complaining about a hole in his fuel map, appearing to blame Lahey despite it being his own car. Luckily the younger boy seems unfazed by his harsh tone, which leads Stiles to believe this is far from his first time lashing out like that.

"Here you go," Cora announces, and Stiles swirls back around to face her with what he hopes is a natural look on his face. "Obviously they're not as good as Jack In The Box, and they're pre-heated, so…" She shrugs with one shoulder. "You know."

Stiles scoffs, amused.

"Thank you. Miss… Hale?" He adds lamely.

She snorts, offering him a small smile.

"Cora."

"Stiles," he says in return.

Her eyebrows rise toward her hair line.

"That's a name?"

"Afraid so," he sighs, shoving some home-made fries into his mouth. "Oh my god," he groans. "These are awesome."

"I'm glad," Cora smiles proudly. Her gaze lifts to somewhere behind him, and her smile grows even wider. "Excuse me. Calvary is here."

Stiles just nods and pretends to direct his full attention to his food, when in reality it stays with the approaching footsteps from behind. Someone brushes past him, but he makes no move to see who it was. Reyes greets Cora with a bump of her fist across the bar disk while the guys walk straight into the shop, voices raised in intense conversation.

"Yo, Derek!" Boyd suddenly calls out, and Stiles can't for the life of him keep himself from looking up. "Want a drink?"

Hale doesn't even turn his head. In fact, he doesn't even use words to respond. He just raises an opened beer can above his head, not looking up from whatever he's reading back there. Boyd shakes his head to himself, turning around just in time to catch a bag of chips tossed by Lahey across a shelf, but Stiles can't stop staring.

A presence to his right is what draws him back. Whittemore has taken the seat across the bar disk and is currently watching him with a frown.

"I haven't seen you around here before," he drawls. "You new in town?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, meeting the guy's gaze steadily. He's got a feeling this isn't the time to play the innocent-puppy card. "Yeah, I heard you're doing some crazy shit down here."

Whittemore laughs, a mocking sound that makes Stiles jaw set.

"That so?" He asks, cocking one eyebrow while giving Stiles an unimpressed once-over. "And what makes you think you'd get to be in on it?"

"Jackson," Cora says from where she's standing with Reyes, both of them sending him warning looks.

He lifts a hand in a peaceful gesture.

"Chill, ladies. I'm just making conversation." Turning back to Stiles, he gives him a sly smile. "You race, boy?"

"I do."

"No," Whittemore immediately shuts him down, shaking his head. "No, you _think_ that what you do is race. But trust me: you haven't seen racing until you've seen us do it on our streets."

"Well, that's what I'm here for," Stiles assures him, starting to get just a little bit sick of this guy. "Bring it on."

"Careful what you wish for," Whittemore warns. He throws a glance towards the back room. "You do know who we are, don't ya?"

"I know Hale," Stiles replies, daringly tilting his head to the side, "but I've heard nothing about you."

The flash of anger in the man's eyes is slightly terrifying, and for a moment Stiles is convinced he's made a terrible mistake and will be sent back to the station in a body bag. Whittemore narrows his eyes at him, jaw clenching like in a silent threat.

"You think I'd be riding with Hale if I couldn't drive?" He wonders, voice low. "You think he just lets anyone into his gang?"

Stiles digs out his wallet, deciding that it's time to go before anything bad happens.

"I think," he says, putting three dollars next to his plate before looking Whittemore square in the eye, "that you love the sound of your own voice, and once you got that fuel map fixed you can show me how much of it that's just bullshit."

He's pretty sure he hears Lahey and Boyd go "oohhhhh" somewhere inside the shop, but tries to ignore the satisfaction it gives him. He nods to Cora before turning to leave, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when heading for his car. Part of him wants to stay longer, maybe try and chat with Hale's sister some more, but he has to remind himself that this is going to take time. He's not going to win them over on the very first day; and he _certainly_ won't do it by punching Whittemore in the face, which is exactly how things are gonna go down if he lingers.

The next second—right as he's about to cross the road—someone shoves him from behind, forcing him to throw his hands out and brace the fall against the hood of Lahey's car. Swirling around, he's not the slightest bit surprised to find Whittemore standing on the pavement, eyes gleaming with rage and hands closing into fists at his sides.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?"

"You better watch your mouth, asshole," Whittemore growls through gritted teeth. "No one insults me and walks away, you hear me?"

Stiles scoffs mirthlessly, straightening up and—forgetting all about what he should or shouldn't do—takes one step forward.

"Well," he sighs, "no one shoves me and gets away with it, either."

His first punch lands right across Whittemore's jaw, and its sharp edge makes his knuckles hurt. That doesn't stop him from taking a second swing, however, or blocking the following blow of revenge aiming for his cheek. Stiles manages to get two more hits in before Whittemore barges through his barrier of practiced techniques with sheer muscle strength, hitting him in the lower stomach that punches the breath right out of his lungs. Stiles stumbles backwards, trying to catch his breath in order to regain the upper hand.

But Whittemore doesn't fight like the trainees in police school, and is on him in a second. Stiles does his best to protect his own body, landing a few successful punches in the guy's ribs. It's enough to make him grunt, but not enough to stop the fist aiming for Stiles' throat. At this point they are just dancing around each other in the middle of the street, threatening to fall over at any moment. He hears Cora and the others yelling behind them, and it's enough to pull him back to the present.

 _I'm gonna get fucking arrested,_ Stiles angrily thinks to himself, gritting his teeth. _Some cop._

Another fist hits its mark at his side, and just as he braces his arm to get his revenge, he's being pushed backwards with surprising strength. Stiles lands on Lahey's hood again, chest heaving and head spinning. He's just about to ask himself how the hell Whittemore managed to pull him off so easily when realizing it's not Jackson Whittemore standing over him.

It's Hale.

He's positioned himself between the two of them, one arm held out to his right where Whittemore is peering down at Stiles over his shoulder. The rest of the crew is standing on the pavement along with the other customers, though Stiles can't pay attention to either of their faces right now. He's too busy staring up at Derek Hale who's currently giving him the most murderous look he's ever seen, and Stiles can hear the rush of blood in his ears when his heart skips a number of beats.

Because despite the three weeks of hard training and late night research, nothing has prepared him for this.

Hale's eyes are _not_ green. They're— Fuck, Stiles can't even tell. Hazel, maybe? Brown clouds swimming in an ocean of blue and green? He's got a full beard instead of the boyish stubble from his mug shot, and while Stiles knows that picture is horribly outdated, it still surprises him. He's wearing a button-up that looks as if someone tore its sleeves off with their bare hands, his toned arms on full display. And what arms he's got, too. The guy must've started lifting once he got out of Lompoc because his frame was much smaller in all the pictures Stiles has seen.

"He was in my face," tells him, pushing himself off the car and expecting Hale to take a step back.

He doesn't; he stays right where he is and doesn't take his eyes off Stiles for even half a second.

"And now I'm in your face," he points out, voice deep and challenging.

They're close enough for Stiles to feel Hale's hot breath in his face, and it's sending prickles down his spine. He desperately tries and fails to come up with a response that won't get him fucking _killed_ , when Whittemore suddenly tries to move past Hale and pick the fight back up. His fingertips barely graze Stiles before Hale is shoving him back again, single-handedly.

"Don't push it, Jackson," He growls into his team mate's face. "You embarrass me."

Leaning back on the hood again, Stiles tries to catch his breath once Hale's piercing eyes aren't on him anymore. Boyd shows up and helps keeping Whittemore away from the scene, and then Hale turns to face Stiles again.

"Isaac," he says, holding out an open palm without averting his eyes. "Give me the wallet."

Stiles is just about to wonder _what wallet?_ when Lahey hands Hale what looks like _Stiles'_ wallet, and he instinctively claps on his pockets to discover it's been taken off him. How the hell did the boy manage that without him noticing? There was nothing in his file about him being a goddamn pocket thief. For a moment he panics, forgetting Hale won't find his real license in there, or any proof of him being a cop, but even once he remembers his heart refuses to slow down.

Hale frowns down at the card in his hand for a moment before reading out loud:

"Stiles D. O'Brien." With the frown still deep on his face, he looks back up. "What kind of name is 'Stiles'?"

"Mine," Stiles replies lamely, flopping his arms in a helpless gesture. "What, you're gonna bully me for it?"

"I'm not a bully," Hale says simply, closing the wallet with one hand and takes a step closer. He nods to where Whittemore is currently walking off his rage further down the street. "But Jackson over there has a very short fuse for amateurs, so I suggest you be careful around him."

"Perhaps you should put a leash on him," Stiles mutters before he can stop himself.

Hale narrows his eyes at him, and if humans had been able to smell fear, Stiles is fairly sure he'd be reeking of it.

"You probably shouldn't come around here again," he says, and his tone makes it clear it's not really a suggestion.

He holds up the wallet in a wordless offer, and Stiles snatches it from his hand. They maintain eye-contact even as Hale starts to turn around. Stiles' heart is slamming against his ribs, but he's confident he looks nothing but pissed on the outside. Hale walks back inside the shop, not stopping to listen to his sister or the rest of his crew. Whittemore looks as if he's considering throwing himself on Stiles now that Hale isn't there to keep them apart, but must've gather his wits in the end as he follows the crew and disappears into the back room.

Stiles is just about to let out a big sigh of relief when he turns around to find Lahey still standing on the pavement. His gaze travels between Stiles and his car, an unreadable look on his face.

"You're lucky you're not heavy," he says, nodding to the hood of his car where there's no trace of Stiles bracing himself on it. Twice.

And with that, he heads back to the market, too.

 

 

 

 

Allison picks up on the very first ring.

_"This is Allison."_

It sounds unprofessional, but that's kind of the whole point. Other than Stiles there is one other LAPD officer currently working undercover among the street racers, and they both have the same number to get in contact with the station. They are not allowed to save it in their contact list in case someone gets a hold of their phone, but even if they manage to find the number in their log: the first thing they hear probably shouldn't be: _LAPD, how can I help?_

"Hey, Al," Stiles sighs, happy to hear her voice. "It's Stiles."

_"Stiles! How's it going?"_

"Well," he drawls, scratching the back of his head. "Not very well, to be honest."

It's been an hour since he left the market, and he'd went straight to the Dodger stadium up on Elysian Park Avenue to let off some steam. The parking lot is huge, and when empty it functions really well as a race track. Stiles had gone pedal to the metal with the Eclipse, trying to get his shit together after the disastrous first encounter with the Hale crew. It hadn't worked.

 _"Why, what happened?"_ She asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

He supposes it's only fair—him being the best friend to her fiancé and all. Stiles lets out a heavy breath, drawing it out over the line.

"I fought Whittemore."

_"You did what?"_

"I didn't _mean_ to," Stiles clarifies. "He threw a punch at me. What was I supposed to do—show him my badge?"

Allison sighs, but it doesn't sound nearly as disappointing as one of McCall's sighs. Those are the worst.

_"What about Hale?"_

"He's the one who broke us up," Stiles admits, kicking at an imaginary rock as he circles the car in the middle of the abandoned parking lot. "I don't think I got off to a good start with either of them."

 _"Understatement,"_ she says, then sighs again. _"Look, Stiles, I know these aren't the easiest people to work with—"_

"Now _that's_ an understatement," Stiles interjects. "They're almost-killers, Al."

_"Not all of them."_

"The only one who matters," Stiles mutters, remembering having Hale's eyes trained on him.

He shudders.

_"You can't give up already. I don't think you've ruined it all yet."_

Stiles laughs.

"Keyword: yet."

_"Come on, Stiles. I know you don't want to tell Mr. McCall that you've screwed it all up. And neither do I."_

Pursing his lips, Stiles takes a new, deep breath.

"You're right," he says.

_"Of course I am."_

Rolling his eyes, he 'rounds the car back to the driver's side.

"I guess you still need to inform McCall about the fight," he sighs. "Hopefully he'll think I managed to impress Hale."

_"And did you?"_

He shrugs to himself as he slides back behind the wheel.

"One can hope."

 

 

 

 

_"I have a bad feeling about this."_

Stiles is back at the apartment, devouring the chicken salad he's bought for lunch. He'd dug out his personal phone when he got back and found two missing calls from Lydia. She's another childhood friend from Beacon Hills, but unlike him and Scott she never got out of there. They don't get to see each other very often, which means their stubborn friendship is mainly built on their frequent phone calls. But even then Stiles can't tell her what he's up to. She knows he's out on a job and it'll be difficult to reach him most of the time, but that's about it.

"Hey, no," he protests, mouth full. "None of that. None of your bad feelings. Last time you had a bad feeling I crashed my car."

_"I hardly doubt that was my fault?"_

"Definitely had something to do with it," Stiles insists, nodding to himself.

It's not the first time it happened, either. Back when they were kids Lydia often seemed to sense something was about to happen before it actually did. This, of course, lead twelve year-old Stiles to believe she was a psychic. Today he's not as superstitious as he once was, but he's still convinced there's a link between Lydia's bad feelings and the unfortunate events that usually follow.

 _"How's Scott?"_ She asks, clearly trying to change the subject.

"I don't know," he admits. "I haven't seen him for about a week."

_"You moved to LA for him and now you haven't seen him for a whole week? What kind of job is this?"_

"Lydia," he sighs. "I can't tell you. You know that."

_"And I suppose Scott doesn't know anything, either?"_

"Scott is our coroner," Stiles points out. "Last time I saw him it was literally on the job."

 _"Fine,"_ she says, defeated. _"Just… Be careful, please? Whatever you're doing."_

He smiles, suddenly missing her something awful.

"I will," he promises.

 

 

 

 

'When the sun goes down another world comes to life.'

That was the fancy introduction that Deaton had used when first telling Stiles about the case. Back then they had all treated him like someone who barely knew the front and back of a car, before he'd taken the Eclipse for a spin and made everyone on the squad drop their jaws. Everyone but McCall, that is. He'd always known what he and the other kids got up to back in Beacon Hills.

And despite the sun not being quite as hot back home, its departure had been the green light for their mischief to start, too.

It's closing in on midnight when Stiles receives a call from Allison, having spent the latter half of the day exploring town. He's kept an eye out for the Hale crew, but their paths haven't crossed. Not that it's to be expected; it's a bigass city.

 _"Parrish just called in to inform us that there's a gathering happening downtown tonight,"_ she tells him, and it only takes a second for Stiles to remember that Parrish is the other guy currently posing as a racer. They've met a few times over the last three weeks, on the rare occasions when the man has been at the station rather out on the streets. He's a likable guy, but hasn't managed to infiltrate one of the crews despite having been undercover for several months before Stiles got here. _"761 Terminal Street. You better try to impress this time, Stiles."_

Stiles has every intention to impress, and not just Hale and his crew.              

He probably could've managed without the address, because he spots a group of race cars loitering in the parking of a rundown grocery store downtown, and follows their lead once they roll out. They head for the street between two of the big warehouses, and Stiles can see cars parked down the entire road on both sides. People are flocking on the sidewalk as well as mingling around the cars; music is playing from several directions, all by impressive audio systems that seem to make the ground vibrate to the beat.

It really does feel like entering a new world. Stiles feels excitement tug at his insides, and he only half-heartedly tries to suppress it. He's allowed to enjoy this, okay? He's still doing his job.

Finding a spot to pull up his car on the already crowded street is not an easy feat, but eventually he finds a vacant spot about halfway down. There are people watching as he puts the car in reverse, giving the Eclipse appreciating looks. It makes a proud smile tug at Stiles' mouth, and he has to remind himself that it's not actually _his_ car. He climbs out and shoves both hands into his pockets, looking out over the packed street.

"Hey, white boy!"

Stiles spins toward the voice, having a feeling it was directed at him. At first all he sees is the crowd of people, but then he spots a young Asian boy making his way towards him. There's something familiar about him, but it's not until he stops right in front of him Stiles doesn't recognize him as the guy on the freeway. He also realizes he's definitely Korean.

"You're the guy from this morning, ain't you?" He asks, smiling wide. He gestures towards the Eclipse next to them. "I was hoping I'd find you here. I've kept an eye out for your car."

"I'm surprised I missed yours," Stiles admits, craning his neck to spot the Mazda further down the street. "She's a beauty."

"That she is," the guy agrees. He holds out his hand. "I'm Minho."

With his heart skipping a beat, Stiles finally puts his skills to the test and mimics the typical handshake.

"Call me Stiles," he returns, hoping to skip the part about it being his real name rather than just a nick name. Minho seems satisfied with the answer and simply nods. "So what's going on?" Stiles asks, putting his hands back in his pockets. "Y'all planning on racing tonight, or what?"

Minho scoffs, copying Stiles' pose and leans his hip against the front fender of the Eclipse.

"Just waiting for Hale," he says, gesturing widely to the people surrounding them. "None of these guys will move before he gets here."

Stiles nods, only rolling his eyes internally.

"Of course."

The potential race won't go down here, and the cops know it, which is why they haven't shown up to interrupt their little pre-party. If they did everyone would just clear out and find another spot, turning the night into a never ending cat-and-mouse game. Stiles has heard quite a few stories about those. LAPD's current strategy is simply to wait until the drivers have decided on a location for a race to be held, and try to catch as many of them as possible with their hands still on the clutch.

Parrish is probably around here somewhere, too, waiting to call Allison and tell her the time and place for the race. He might not be part of a crew, but he's still carved a place for himself in this community, and the other drivers trust him. Stiles will be happy if he even gets that far.

He's just about to open his mouth and casually ask Minho if he heard about that girl who got killed three weeks ago, but is interrupted by loud whoops and cheering from the end of the street. The sound of turbo engines approaching in the distance is unmistakable.

"What's happening?" He asks instead.

Minho just pushes off the Eclipse, his smirk growing wider.

"Looks like they're here."

Stiles watches as the people in the road scatter to leave room for the five cars rolling up. They're driving in formation: Hale in his red Chevrolet Chevelle in the lead with the rest of his crew following behind. Stiles can't help but being fascinated by how every single head turns to have a look, as if Hale's got his own gravity.

Hale doesn't even bother to find a free spot along the road; he just parks in the middle of the street and climbs out of the car as the people close in around them. Stiles feels himself moving closer on pure instinct, tilting his chin up to be able to see over the heads of the crowd. Hale is greeting some of the people coming up to him, using the same handshake Stiles had exchanged with Minho moments earlier. A girl pulls him into a hug, but Stiles is too far away to read Hale's reaction.

"You want me to introduce you?" Minho asks, and once Stiles averts his eyes from Hale he finds the guy watching him with amusement.

"We've met," Stiles says drily.

Minho lifts his eyebrows in what probably is disbelief, but Stiles has already returned his attention to the Hale crew. Lahey has emerged from his own car, and Cora must've been riding with him because she's climbing out of his passenger seat. Reyes receives quite a few looks once she shows up wearing _heels—_ which Stiles can't even begin to imagine how she managed to drive in—but keeps her eyes steady on Boyd who strides up to her side without a word. Whittemore is the last one to get out of his car, and he's frowning as if someone's already offended him.

They're making their way through the crowd, happily greeting the flocking drivers. Stiles absently wonders if it's like this every time they meet up, or if there's ever a time when Hale can just blend in and become one with his people without turning heads. He doesn't seem to mind the attention, and Whittemore seems to _thrive_ in it.

Eventually Hale lifts his gaze to where Stiles and Minho are standing next to the Eclipse, and you can see the exact moment he recognizes the guy he'd pulled off his henchman this morning. The smile on his face slowly falters, and he stops dead in his tracks. Whittemore seems to notice his change of pace and follows his gaze, his whole persona darkening once his eyes land on Stiles. He gives the guy he just greeted a pat on the back and heads straight for them.

"Whoa," Minho says. "I guess you really have met."

Stiles swallows hard, feeling his heart hammering inside his chest while hoping he remains calm on the outside. He half expects Jackson to greet him with his fist, but the guy stops a few feet in front of him, looking him over with clear dislike.

"Brian, was it?" He practically spits, starting to pace on the spot as if keeping himself from doing something stupid.

Like jump someone and beat them senseless.

"O'Brien," Stiles corrects him, keeping his voice guarded but not downright rude.

"Stiles." Hale strides up to stand on Whittemore's left, his gaze back on Stiles with a small smile resting on his lips. He's switched his button-up for a tight muscle jersey as black as his hair, and the silver chain around his neck is the only thing stealing one's attention away from his piercing eyes. "You know," he drawls. "I'm usually really bad with names, but yours was just too odd to forget."

Overwhelmed to suddenly be the center of Hale's attention, Stiles misses a short beat before scoffing in response.

"And here I thought it was my charm."

Laughter around them reminds him that they're anything but alone, and a small circle of bystanders has started to form around the Eclipse. Hale flashes his teeth, and Stiles' mind goes straight to a wolf baring its fangs before an attack. Whittemore just glares harder. Hale looks over to Minho who's been watching the exchange with interest.

"Minho," he greets, offering up his fist for the other racer to pump.

"Derek."

It feels somewhat strange to see someone who's on first name basis with the guy, because Stiles has grown so used to everyone just calling him 'Hale' back at the station. He makes a mental note to look up this Minho guy once he gets the chance and find out just how close to the gang he is.

"This yours?" Hale asks, pulling Stiles from his thoughts, nodding to the Eclipse.

Stiles shrugs with one shoulder.

"I'm standing next to it."

Hale huffs and shakes his head as he takes a few steps closer, eyes tracing the curves of the car in a way that can only be described as erotic. Stiles has no idea what to do with his hands. He glances back over the crowd and spots Cora standing with her arms crossed, meeting his eyes instantly with a smirk. He swallows, looking back to where Hale has finished his inspection. He doesn't check under the hood, and Stiles doubts he would without permission.

Looking under someone's hood is—as an asshole back home once said—like looking under a woman's skirt, and most racers respect other drivers' privacy. And considering the loyalty most street racers in his neighborhood has shown Hale even when facing years in prison, Stiles has no doubt he's willing to show them that kind of respect.

Just as he looks as if he's about to ask Stiles something, a guy practically elbows his way through the crowd towards them.

"Yo, Hale," he says, slightly out of breath. "There's a 187 up in Glendale. The cops are all over it. We should roll out."

Stiles barely manages to stop himself from letting the surprise show on his face, because 187 means _murder_ and must mean these guys got their hands on a fucking police radio. Does the department know? Probably not. He'll have to call Allison in the morning and call it in.

"A'ight," Hale nods, turning back to the crowd flocking even tighter around them. "We'll race in Hawthorne. Prairie Avenue. Y'all know how it's done. Bets are made on the spot. Drivers," he calls out, eyes passing over Minho. "2,000 buy-in. The winner takes it all. You either pay up now or be left standing on the sidewalk."

The crowd laughs in agreement, and Minho doesn't hesitate to pull up a roll of cash from his pocket. He offers it to Hale but the man shakes his head while digging into his own pockets.

"My sister holds the money," he announces, nodding to Cora who steps forward to cheekily snatch the cash from Minho's hand.

"Why her?" Someone in the crowd asks.

Hale sneers.

"Because she'll bite the hand off anyone who'll try take them from her."

Cora playfully snaps her jaws together as if to prove her brother's point, and the crowd cheers encouragingly. Hale hands her another 2,000 from his own pocket, and so does another driver Stiles isn't familiar with.

"I'm in."

Everyone's head snaps in the direction of his voice, but Stiles himself is looking straight at Hale.

"This ain't no amateur race!" Someone shouts.

"And I'm no amateur," Stiles returns simply, pulling a paper from his wallet as he steps forward, heart in his throat. "I don't have the cash, but I do have the pink slip to my car."

"You're willing to lose your car?" Minho blinks. "Whoa, hold up, greenie—"

"Who says I'm gonna lose?" Stiles interjects, smiling faintly. "But if I do, the winner takes my car. Clean and clear."

He holds up the pink slip for Cora who hesitates with a glance at her brother. Hale studies him with those intense eyes of his, and Stiles does his best to return the stare. He can see Whittemore's disapproving glare in the corner of his eye, and he isn't the only one. The people around them speak their minds in hushed murmurs, but soon enough they all quiet down as Hale takes a step forward, tilting his head to the side.

"You're that desperate to show what you've made of?" He asks, his voice gravel-rough.

Stiles doesn't miss a beat.

"I am."

Hale's gaze flickers between Stiles' two eyes, as if searching for a sign of doubt in either of them. The corner of his mouth tugs up in a sly smile.

"Okay," he says. "You're in." He takes the pink slip from Stiles' hand and gives it to his sister. Stiles expects him back off then, but instead he takes another step forward, bringing them face to face with only a couple inches of air between them. "Let's see what you got."

With his heart beating so loud and fast he wouldn't be surprised if Hale could _hear_ it, Stiles nods. Then Hale's gone, and he can breathe again.

 

 

 

 

They all drive southwest, making it to Hawthorne right below 25 minutes. You can tell the herd of racing cars would like to go even faster, but at the same time they don't want to attract the cops before the race has even begun. Chances are someone's already called in to complain about them roaming the streets, and they can't assume every cop in the city will be in Glendale.

Stiles keeps Hale within his line of sight, staying on the Chevelle's tail for the whole ride over. Whittemore stays close to him in return, acting like Hale's self-helping guard dog, though Stiles can't decide if he's being more loyal or rebellious.

Prairie Avenue is long and broad enough for four cars to line up next to each other, which is probably why Hale chose it. There's still some traffic despite the late hour, but with so many cars at their disposal they easily close off a big portion of the street. Stiles can't help but being amazed by how organized everything is. A girl flags in the four drivers with a red piece of cloth in her hand, and they roll up to the starting line made of spray paint across the road. People are standing on both sides of the street all the way down to the finish line, which Stiles assumes is exactly one quarter mile from where they're lined up. It's the typical length of a drag race, and with cars like theirs the race itself will be over in ten seconds.

Reason they call it a ten-second-car.

Hale is positioned farthest to the right, and Stiles got both Minho and the fourth driver between them. Not that it matters; hopefully he's gonna have the man's attention no matter which lane he drives in. He has no illusions of beating Hale—the guy is infamous for a reason—but he can't help but to entertain the idea. The competitive part of him is coming back to life, thinking about the level of respect the entire city would give to the person who managed to defeat Derek Hale.

Stiles inhales and exhales deeply, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. He hasn't raced since Beacon Hills, before he decided to become a cop to honor the memory of his father; before he started convincing himself that reckless kid was never who he was. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then, but he can feel the familiar adrenaline rush through his system now; the old reflexes and instincts being brought to the surface. Like they've been waiting this moment.

The girl with the red scarf steps out in the cleared street in front of them, and Stiles' heart immediately jumps in anticipation. She stops right on the white line in the middle of the road, all eyes watching the substitute-flag in her hand.

"Ready?" She calls out, and is immediately overpowered by the sound of engines roaring in response.

Stiles keeps his left foot on the clutch while tapping the gas with his right, joining in. The Eclipse is vibrating beneath him, waiting to leap, and his heart is throbbing hard against its cage. The crowd is cheering, hands clapping and waving in the air, and it's almost as if the street got a heartbeat of its own—pulsing through the asphalt in rhythm with the cars' engines.

"Set!"

His eyes are on the girl as she lifts both arms in front of her, the flag waving in the mild night air. Stiles puts more weight onto the gas pedal, his left foot itching to move. His hand is comfortably seated on the gear stick, the base of his palm ready to push forward. The moment the girl's arms move again, he shifts into first gear, knowing that all three drivers to his right are doing the same thing. She throws her arms down.

"Go!"

Stiles is pretty sure he's holding his breath while taking his foot off the clutch, the Eclipse taking off with screeching tires. Even across the hoods of two other cars, he sees the front of Hale's Chevelle lift into the air as it takes off, rising up on its back wheels like a wild horse. He takes the lead from the get go, all three components already facing his tail lights by the time the car's front wheels return to ground level.

It's the longest ten seconds in Stiles' life, and it feels half like a dream.

He passes Minho's Mazda in a blur, double-clutching from sheer muscle memory, his right foot getting bolder and heavier every time he puts it back on the gas. The people on the sidelines are just a blur of colors, his eyes fixed on the open road in front of him. And Hale. Stiles shifts into fourth gear by the time he passes the nameless driver, and then he's closing in on the Chevelle.

There's a moment, when Stiles tears his eyes off the finish line and looks over to catch Hale's gaze, that he forgets everything else. He forgets all about being a cop, or Hale a criminal. Forgets this man may or may not have killed someone. Forgets he's only here to put guys like Hale and O'Brien behind bars.

Instead there is just the urge to win; to drive faster, to break every rule there is, because _who cares?_

Hale averts his eyes and does something that makes the muscles in his arm twitch, and then the Chevelle crosses the finish line not even half a second before the Eclipse. With his heart beating inside his chest so hard it _hurts_ , Stiles lets go off the gas and hits the break instead. The car spins, tires screeching, and comes to a violent stop right across Minho's lane further down the street. A cloud of smoke is rising from beneath the car chassis, but Stiles is too busy just catching his breath to worry about a fried engine.

_Get your shit together, Stiles._

Once he climbs out into the open air, people flocking around Hale and his car further up the street. Minho and the fourth driver have made it across the finish line as well, and Hale's crew are joining their leader in celebration. Cora hands her brother the stack of cash, and a round of applauds surges through the crowd. Everyone's eyes are on trained on Hale.

Stiles' is no exception, and perhaps Hale even feels it because he suddenly turns his head to where Stiles is standing next to the smoking Eclipse, and a cocky smile settles on his lips. He walks through the crowd that's still cheering and congratulating him, heading for Stiles. The people move with him, like planets following their orbits around the sun, and Stiles supposes the man really must have his own gravity.

"Whatcha smiling about?" Hale asks once he's within hearing distance.

First then does Stiles realize he's got a grin etched on his face, and the race of his heart is far from over. He point straight at Hale.

"Dude, I almost had you," he says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice.

The group of bystanders gathering around the Eclipse and two drivers let out a vibrating laughter at his words. Hale cocks an eyebrow at him, looking highly amused.

" _You_ almost had _me?_ " He asks, drawing another wave of mocking laughter from the crowd. "You never had me," he explains, slowly starting to circle around Stiles and the Eclipse. "You never had your _car._ "

Stiles knows he should probably feel more humiliated about the people around them whooping and agreeing with Hale's every word, but he's too busy just watching the guy. Hale moves like he belongs on this street, like he owns it, and in a way he probably does.

"What's the point of driving a turbo car if you don't know how to power-shift?" He goes on, eyes traveling between the crowd, the car, and Stiles. "You know how much time it could take off your quarter mile?" He asks, but doesn't wait for a reply. "Seconds. That's plural."

He 'rounds the car to step right into Stiles' personal space, and this time Stiles isn't as surprised. Getting up in someone's face seems to be his way of posing a threat, but Stiles can't say whether it works or not. All he knows is that his body goes tense and his heart jolts whenever it happens.

"Ask any racer," Hale says, voice clear for everyone around them to hear. "It doesn't matter if you win by an inch or a mile. Winning's wining."

The crowd erupts in cheering, all of them clearly agreeing with Hale. Stiles spots Whittemore grinning to his left, looking awfully pleased at having Stiles put on the spot like this. Lahey is standing behind Hale's left shoulder, smirking just like the rest of the crowd, though it doesn't look nearly as mocking as Whittemore's. Hale takes a couple steps back and raises his arms out towards the vocal crowd, tilting his chin up with that cocky smile if to emphasize his point.

Stiles is just about to open his mouth and defend himself when the same guy who'd informed about Glendale comes running.

"Cops, cops, cops!" He shouts, and that's all that needs to be said for the crowd to scatter.

Everyone is suddenly running for their life, either by foot or heading back to their cars parked further up the street. Stiles watches Hale duck into one of the dark alleys to his side and Cora climb behind the wheel of the Chevelle. The sound of sirens approaches quickly, and Stiles has to make a call as he gets back into the Eclipse. All cars rushes off in various directions, trying to get away, but Stiles heads straight down the alley where Hale had disappeared.

It doesn't take long to catch up with him, though it's quite impressive just how far he's gotten solely on foot. Hale doesn't turn his head even as he falls into the Eclipse's headlights, probably thinking it's either a cop chasing him or a fellow racer trying to get the hell out of there. Stiles purses his lips and accelerates enough to pass Hale running to his right, spinning the car to a sudden stop across the man's path. He halts, surprised, and Stiles ducks his head down enough to meet his gaze through the passenger-seat's window.

"Get in!" He shouts.

To his surprise, Hale doesn't hesitate to obey; he practically rips the door open and slips inside the car just as a police cruiser appears in the alley behind them. Stiles steps on the gas and takes a sharp turn down another narrow street, trying to think of the best way to shake the cops off. Hale turns to look behind them, his bare shoulder brushing against Stiles'—a solid reminder of how the two of them are sharing the small space of a car. Stiles' heart speeds up along with the Eclipse, but he can't possibly tell the fear of Derek Hale or the fear of getting caught apart.

He knows Deaton and McCall would step in to help if he was to get arrested, but Hale is a completely different story. If he got caught for something as insignificant as illegal racing for one night in Hawthorne, it might impact on their chances to solve the murder case. Which is why Stiles has been instructed to keep Hale out of handcuffs the best he can without blowing his cover.

Two more police cars appear in front of them, attempting to block the road. Stiles notices Hale tensing up next to him, but keeps a level head as he smoothly slides past both cars with ease—knowing just how they've positioned themselves according to police protocol. Once he's past them it's easy to disappear into the stream of traffic down Jefferson Avenue, and the sound of sirens slowly grow more and more distant.

Eventually Hale stops glancing at the review mirror and lets out a deep breath, shoulders sagging as he sinks further into the seat. Stiles' eyes are on the road, but he still observes the man in the corner of his eye.

"You're the last person in the world I expected to show up," Hale says after a moment, voice quiet.

He looks straight ahead. Still, Stiles smiles faintly as he glances over.

"Just delivering your car."

Hale snorts, looking out his window.

"Chances are the pigs will be looking for it after that stunt you pulled," he says thoughtfully. Stiles doesn't say anything, his eyes on the road. "Where did you learn to drive like that, anyway?"

"Told you I was no amateur," Stiles reminds him.

"What are you then?" Hale asks, suddenly angling his whole upper body toward him. He's got a curious look on his face that's making Stiles uneasy. "Car thief?"

"No."

"Ever done time?"

Stiles inhales and exhales through his nose.

"No, never."

Hale doesn't look convinced.

"You know," he begins. "I know a guy who could find you on the web in a matter of seconds. Whatever you refuse to tell me, I'll find out one way or another. So why bullshit?"

Sighing softly in defeat, Stiles rearranges his grip on the steering wheel.

"Two years in juvie," he admits. "For boosting cars."

When creating his new identity, McCall had given Stiles a significant look while suggesting to the whole squad that O'Brien should've been in juvie for stealing cars when he was younger. He'd said it was a 'typical crime record for this kind of criminal'. Stiles hadn't said anything other than nodding in confirmation as officer Mahealani typed it onto his computer. Few seemed to know it was his real track record.

Looking pleased, Hale sags further into his seat.

"What about you?" Stiles asks then, looking over with his hands steady on the wheel.

Hale doesn't meet his gaze, just watches the dark neighborhood swishing by his window.

"Two years in Lompoc," he finally says, and it's barely a murmur. There's a pause. "I'll die before I go back there."

Stiles feels his heart sink, though he's not sure why. Maybe because when the time comes to bring Hale in, he's going to remember those words, and pray for them not to be true.

 

 

 

 

Despite knowing Hale's home address, Stiles still has to pretend like he hasn't read the guy's file like a goddamn bedtime story for the past three weeks, and after following Hale's directions they eventually pull up on East Kensington Road. It's just a few hours till dawn, and Stiles' body is ready to shut down at any moment, but as soon as he spots the house he feels more alert. Everyone back at the station knows where Hale lives, but to actually sit in the street outside, looking up at it, feels just as strange as seeing the market or the crew members in person.

It's one of those Victorian style houses that had been popular in the 40's, and looks well lived in. Stiles tries to picture the Hale siblings growing up here, but it's difficult. It's hard to picture the big man next to him as something so small and innocent as a child when knowing so much about him and what he's done. What he might've done.

"Pull up in the driveway," Hale tells him. "I'll deal with the car in the morning."

Stiles nods as he parks the Eclipse behind what looks like Reyes' car. The rest of the crew must've made it back on their own, though the house is quiet and shows no sign of life.

"Looks like I'm walking home," he says as they climb out in the open air, offering Hale a tired smile.

Hale just huffs, sounding just as tired.                                                                        

"I could call you a cab," he offers.

"Nah," Stiles shrugs, hands sneaking down the pockets of his jeans. "I don't mind walking for a bit."

"A'ight," Hale says, and then they just kind of stand there awkwardly on the sidewalk.

Stiles looks for something to say, but for once his brain provides him with absolutely nothing. He just observes the way the streetlight above them is casting dark shadows across Hale's face, the way he looks with his hair slightly ruffled from the running and car chasing.

"Well," Hale eventually say, backing up. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Stiles agrees.

He turns around and starts to walk away, but barely gets halfway across the road before Hale's voice cuts through the night.

"Hey, kid." Stiles stops and turns back to see Hale standing on the porch of the house, leaning against one of the pillars. "Thank you."

Stiles can't help but snort, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not a kid," he protests, not sure how to go on about the rest.

The corner of Hale's mouth pulls up in a sly smile.

"You are in this world," he says before disappearing into the house.

Stiles remains frozen on the spot for a while before scoffing to himself, shaking his head in disbelief, and continues to cross the road. He makes sure to 'round two corners before digging the phone out of his pocket, typing in the number from memory. There are three rings before the call is picked up.

"You better have a damn good reason for calling me five in the morning, Stilinski," comes McCall's answer, voice thick with sleep.

Stiles smiles up at the gray sky.

"I'm in."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One year and 11 days later... here is the second chapter.
> 
> If you follow me on tumblr you probably know why this project had to be put on hold for so long, but if you don't, please read this [FAQ](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/qmfaq) and the elaborated explanation. The short version is: hand injury + writing school.
> 
> For the rest of this summer, please check my [qm update](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/tagged/qm-update) tag to track my writing process. Let's get this show (back) on the road!

[tumblr](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/)  •  [soundtrack](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/post/122004438937)  •  [FAQ](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/qmfaq)  •  [cars](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/cars)

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Stiles gets arrested nine o'clock the following morning.

He calls a cab to take him downtown, fully aware of what it'll cost him but knows the department will be paying for it. He's just stepped out on the sidewalk outside the diner where he's planned to get his breakfast when a cop car pulls up behind the parked cab, and a woman in uniform gets out from behind the wheel. Stiles only just manages not to grin upon seeing her.

"Turn around," Allison says as she approaches him, her face stern. "Hands behind your head."

Stiles does as he's told, turning his back to her and instead facing the small group of bystanders further up the street. He sighs, putting his hands behind his head while hearing the sound of handcuffs being unfastened from Allison's belt.

"What did I do?" He asks, going for confused.

Allison doesn't answer—which probably is for the best—just steps up behind him to do a quick search, clapping her hands down his sides and pretending to look for a potential weapon. Once done, she brings his arms down to handcuff them behind his back. Her grip is a little harder than necessary, and Stiles figures rolling his eyes won't blow his cover. She leads him back to the police cruiser, opening the door to the backseat and putting a hand above his head as he gets in. It's fucking _hilarious_ but he's not safe to laugh just yet, so he simply grunts and tries to find a comfortable position with the handcuffs digging into his back.

Once she's back behind the wheel, and they're two blocks away from the scene, Stiles leans forward to rest his forehead against the grill.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

She looks over her shoulder, her smile all dimples and innocence.

"I had to make it look realistic, didn't I?" She remarks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Oh, is that why I didn't even get a warning?"

"You didn't warn me last night," Allison retorts, her eyes back on the road. "I thought I'd be the first to know about your progress with Hale."

Stiles sighs, leaning back.

"I'm sorry," he admits. "I couldn't help it. I wanted to see McCall's reaction first-hand."

"But you didn't get to see it," Allison points out.

"No, but I got to hear him splutter over the phone," Stiles says dreamily. "It was awesome."

Allison chuckles.

"Parrish is quite impressed with you, too. He says you were amazing last night."

"I didn't win, Al," Stiles reminds her. "I lost the car."

She throws him another smile.

"I don't think he was talking about the race."

The station, as always, is a busy place. Allison parks in the underground garage, well out of sight of any civilians, so she can take off the handcuffs as soon as she lets Stiles out of the car. He rubs his wrists and complains about them being too tight, but Allison just rolls her eyes and pulls him along, saying the squad is waiting for them upstairs.

A table is set up in the entrance hall, and Stiles' eyes are drawn there just like they've been every time he's walked through these doors for the past three weeks. It's a memorial, and the picture of a smiling woman placed in the center is the same one that's pinned to the board in Deaton's office. There are still flowers and candles, but none of them are lit anymore, and Stiles suspects they'll move her portrait and hang it on the wall of fallen heroes any day now. The official mourning can only go on for so long.

 _Marin Morrell_. Sometimes Stiles wishes he'd known her, but at the same time he knows his own job would be a hell of a lot harder if he had. He won't go seeking revenge before justice, which is probably yet another reason why he's better equipped for this job than most of his colleagues.

It feels strange to be back there after everything that went down yesterday, and several heads are turned as he and Allison make their way through the building to Deaton's office. He feels a little out of place, but it's probably got more to do with him being a newbie rather than being out of uniform. He doesn't even got his own desk yet, because it was thought unnecessary when he was gonna spend his next couple weeks out in the field, anyway. Once this job is over, however, Stiles is positive he's gonna fit right in.

At least he hopes so.

Deaton is just stepping out of his office when they enter his precinct, and his face practically lights up the moment he sees Stiles. The pride is evident, and Stiles can't help but smile at him in pure triumph. Then Mr. McCall appears behind him, an empty coffee mug in his hand and a grim expression on his face, and Stiles barely keeps his shoulders from sagging.

"Stilinski," McCall greets him before Deaton has the chance to. "Back from the wolf den, huh? Whatcha got?"

"How much do you expect me to have after one day?" Stiles asks, frowning.

"Anything," McCall replies, tone flat. "Literally anything."

"How about we sit down somewhere to talk?" Deaton suggests, ever the peacekeeper. "We have the briefing room till the next hour."

McCall shrugs but obeys, turning on his heel.

"Sounds like we won't need it for even half that long," he mutters.

Deaton pretends not to hear him, giving Stiles an encouraging clap on the shoulder and the hint of a smile.

"Well done, Stiles."

Stiles nods, unable to stop himself from puffing out his chest a little. He likes Deaton, even if he doesn't know him very well. When he'd told Scott the name of his Captain, his friend had immediately assured him that he got lucky. There are over 80 Captains in LA's police department, and apparently Deaton is Scott's all-time favorite. He may not smile at all of Stiles' jokes but he _acknowledges_ them, and that's a lot more than McCall has ever done.

"Where's Parrish?" Deaton asks as they follow McCall down the corridor, looking at Allison.

"Upstairs," she replies. "I'm sure he'll be down if he can."

Nodding, Deaton walks ahead to catch up with McCall. Stiles tilts his head closer to Allison.

"What's he doing?"

"Talking to Danny. Probably running a profile on someone. He comes in contact with a lot of racers."

"I bet," Stiles hums. "Hey, could I get the number to Danny's desk?"

"You're not really supposed to contact anyone but me," Allison reminds him, honest to god _pouting_.

Stiles gently elbows her in the side.

"I'll always call you first from now on, I promise. But I might need him to look up something for me."

Allison looks hesitant for a moment, but then she softly rolls her eyes, dimples showing.

"Fine. If it'll help you with the case."

"It will," Stiles assures her.

McCall has just poured himself another cup of coffee when the two of them enter the room, and gestures for them to take a seat as he takes his place next to Deaton up by the board. Stiles' eyes are immediately drawn to Hale's mug shot that's pinned up there, and it feels weird looking at it now after meeting the man in the flesh. He's spent so many hours staring at it, trying to imagine what it'd be like to have those eyes trained on him, and yet he never could predict what that reality was going to be like.

"Where's Scott?" He asks Allison, having expecting his friend to be here.

"Down at the morgue," she tells him. "He wished he could've stayed to see you, though. You should call him when you get the chance."

"So," McCall says, getting everyone's attention. He leans back in his chair. "Whatcha got?"

Stiles snorts.

"Did you not hear me out there?" He looks to Deaton. "Maybe I'm not the only one who should've gone through undercover training," he suggests sarcastically, turning back to an unamused McCall. "This shit takes _time_. That's one of the first things they taught us."

McCall half-heartedly raises a hand in surrender.

"Alright," he says. "Just tell us about him." He lifts the mug to his lips. "Tell us about Hale."

It's Stiles turn to lean back in his chair, letting out a heavy breath as his eyes once again travel up to Hale's face on the board. His heart skips a beat, probably because he's reminded of just how dangerous the man is. He'd forgotten last night, for a brief moment, but it won't happen again. After the assault, pictures of Hale's uncle—Peter Hale—are up on the board as well, and the half of his face covered in bloody cuts and bruises is a good reminder. Not that Stiles ever forgot what it looked like.

Sighing softly, he looks back to where both Deaton and McCall are clearly waiting for him to start talking. Allison by his side looks curious, too.

"He is… admired," he begins, but realizes that the word he's actually going for is _loved_. It had never crossed his mind before, that a guy like Hale could be loved, but he'd seen it on the street last night. "And I don't think it's got to do with fear."

"They don't know he might be a killer," Deaton says thoughtfully. "If they did, they wouldn't worship him like they do."

"Probably not," Stiles agrees quietly, "but does that mean they don't know about his uncle, either? Or do they just not care?"

"Maybe his uncle scratched his car," McCall suggests off-handedly. "They'd probably think his beating was justified for that."

Stiles wants to protest, but realizes he's got no reason to defend the street racers. He doesn't know them, or what they're capable of. Just because they're not known to be drug dealers doesn't mean they're harmless. Morrell's murder proved that much.

"Look," he says, straightening up in his chair. "What do we know? We know Morrell called in to report her attending a meet-up in Compton about two hours before her death, according to Scott. We know Hale was there, among the big group of drivers who left to race down 135th Street."

"We _assume_ Hale was there," McCall corrects him.

But Stiles shakes his head.

"I saw the scene at Terminal Street last night," he says. "No one would move until Hale got there. If there was a race, we are right to presume he's the one who made it happen."

"And we are right to presume that Marin never made it to 135th Street," Deaton says, his expression unreadable. "We got our first call about the racers closing off the street pretty much the same time as her estimated time of death."

"But we have no proof other than her phone call that she even made it to the meet-up spot," Stiles points out. "Her body was found by the harbor."

McCall lets out a heavy sigh, taking a big sip from his coffee.

"You're undercover for a reason, Stilinski." He pauses and studies Stiles for a moment. "You think he did it?"

Stiles scoffs.

"I've known the guy for less than 24 hours," he reminds him. "How would I—"

"But you've met him," McCall insists. "You're good at reading people, Stilinski. I asked you the very same question last week, and you told me you couldn't judge someone's character before you've met them. Well, now you have. So I ask you again: do you think Hale did it?"

He _is_ good at reading people. He and Lydia make a great duo when it comes to predicting things.

Thinking back on his time with Hale last night, he tries to pinpoint the feeling he'd gotten from the man. His first instinct had been to fear him, and rightfully so, but it's hard to tell what's engraved onto his brain thanks to weeks of preparation and what's his own impression. Stiles thinks of Hale greeting Minho with a fond look on his face; thinks of how he'd met the people flocking around him with a relaxed smile. He thinks of the mob cheering him on as he talked down on Stiles after the race; thinks of him standing there with his arms raised and his people behind him.

"I don't know," he finally says, eyes flickering between McCall and Deaton. "I can't say yet."

Allison leans in to whisper in his ear.

"Keyword: yet."

Stiles gives her an appreciated smile and nods slowly. McCall looks unimpressed.

"It's still early," Deaton says, looking at Stiles though it's most likely directed at McCall. "You only just approached your target. I'm sure you'll be able to tell us more soon."

"Stay on him," McCall prompts. "And stop taking the cab everywhere. Jesus."

"Hey, it was your idea to race for pink slips!"

"Because I was under the impression you were good at it," McCall counters. "It's not like we could've given you rolls of cash to play around with. And I didn't tell you to race _Hale_ right off the bat!"

"What if I'd won?" Stiles asks, completely serious.

"Yeah," McCall snorts while Deaton smiles weakly. "Right."

"Wow, I'm really feeling the support of the team here, guys," Stiles says sarcastically, sinking back in his chair.

Deaton sighs softly and rises from his chair.

"Looks like that's it for today then," he says. "Stiles, you better get back out there."

"How are you getting back?" Allison wonders, looking over to McCall as she gets to her feet. "Should I—"

"I can take him." Everyone turns to the doorway where officer Parrish is standing with a coffee in his hand, looking just as out of place as Stiles with his torn jeans and white t-shirt a little too big. "I'm heading downtown anyway, and my ride is far less suspicious than a cop car."

Even though he knew the guy was in the building, it still surprises Stiles to see him. Maybe because it feels strange to know that they're both undercover in the same circle of criminals, and they're not really supposed to see each other that much. If he ever runs into Parrish out in the streets, he'll have to treat him like a total stranger.

"You drove here?" Stiles asks, standing up as well.

Parrish shakes his head.

"No, but I'm parked just a few blocks away. If you don't mind walking?"

"Apparently I gotta cut down on my cab rides," Stiles scoffs, "so I guess my other option would be walking all the way downtown. Thanks." He turns back to Deaton. "I'll call Allison if I have anything new to report."

"Good," McCall says while Allison smiles, "since those were your orders."

Stiles waves his hand dismissively in the agent's general direction, nodding to Deaton and squeezing Allison's shoulder in passing as he follows Parrish out of the room. They don't say much while making their way through the station, which is a little awkward, but Stiles has no clue _what_ to say. He's never been good at small talk, and mentioning the case is obviously a bad idea as they soon make it out of the building and step out on the streets where they could be heard or seen by anyone.

Parrish takes big sips from his coffee while they walk, probably wanting both his hands free by the time they reach his car. Stiles realizes he's got no clue what the guy is driving and can't help but feeling excited to find out. Being without a car sucks, but getting a new one from the impound yard would be suspicious, to say the least. O'Brien is not supposed to be rich.

He spots Parrish's ride as they 'round the corner at Western Avenue, knowing it's the Nissan Fairlady parked by the pavement as soon as his eyes find it. It's definitely one of the post-millennium models; a 2002 maybe? It's got an epic paintwork fading from yellow to bronze.

"Damn," he says and comes to a halt. Parrish stops as well and looks back at him with a smile. "Glad I'm not the only one driving Japanese."

"Mitsubishi, right?" Parrish asks and 'rounds the car to get to the driver's side.

"Yeah," Stiles nods, heading for the passenger seat. "Eclipse."

"Sweet," Parrish comments as he gets behind the wheel.

They drive east to get on the 110 freeway, and follows it for nearly five miles up north. Stiles gives Parrish the address to Hale's market, hoping to get something to eat since he'd been deprived of his breakfast. He's also hoping to talk to Hale again; if last night hadn't put him on the guy's radar, he doesn't know what would. Stiles can feel a knot growing tighter and tighter in his stomach the closer they get.

"I take it you haven't raced over pink slips," he observes, not a fan of the silence.

Parrish laughs, short and smooth.

"Please, Stilinski," he says, smiling. "Unlike you, I wasn't asked on this case because of my driving skills."

Stiles blinks at him.

"You don't race? Ever? How are you supposed to fit in if you never race?"

"This crowd has plenty of amateurs," Parrish shrugs, both hands on the wheel. "People who talk way better than they drive. My charisma won't get me into any of the gangs that matter, but at least I'm involved enough to provide the department with useful information."

Stiles hums thoughtfully, not minding the silence that follows in order to imagine what Parrish job must be like. He can't, really, because without the racing he's pretty sure it'd feel like something was missing. It sounds _boring,_ no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it doesn't matter. It's a job _,_ not a hobby.

"How long have you been under?"

"Four months."

"Wow," Stiles says honestly. He watches the road for a while before asking further: "Did you know Morrell?"

Parrish nods in the corner of his eye.

"Not as well as Argent or Deaton," he explains, as if to stop any condolences coming his way. "She went undercover to try get close to either Hale or Duke's gang, but as far as we know she wasn't successful with either of them. Back then it was just about catching as many crews as possible for illegal street racing." He sighs softly. "No one had been killed yet."

Stiles has nothing to say to that. Everything had been revolving around Morrell's death since he came here, so it's difficult to think of a time when Hale had been wanted for nothing more than traffic violations. That's not to say he was harmless—speeding puts a lot of lives in danger—but at least no one suspected him of murder.

"Do you think Hale did it?" He asks before he can stop himself, desperate to hear someone else's answer.

A moment of silence passes between them, and for a while Stiles thinks Parrish is going to ignore the question.

"Yes," he finally says, eyes on the road.

 

 

 

 

Parrish pull up in a parking lot on Boston Street, one block from Hale's market, so Stiles can climb out of the car and continue on foot. If anyone saw them in the car together he figures it's not the end of the world—O'Brien could've just asked a fellow racer for a ride—but they agree it's best to keep some distance from each other. He and Morrell had done the same thing.

"Thanks for the ride," Stiles says genuinely, leaning through the passenger seat's window.

"Anytime," Parrish returns, smiling. "Except, you know, not."

Huffing, Stiles claps the window frame and backs up to watch the car drive off, its golden paintwork glistening in the sun.

It's Saturday, and the market is free of customers when Stiles approaches. Cora is behind the counter again, but the back room appears to be empty. Stiles forces to bury his disappointment and meets Cora's raised eyebrow with a wide smile as he crosses the street.

"I wasn't sure you'd wanna show your face here again," she tells him once he's within hearing distance, crossing her arms.

Stiles scoffs, claiming the barstool from yesterday.

"You think I'm scared of Jackson?" He asks, a little offended.

But she shakes her head.

"No, I think you proved that well enough yesterday."

"What, then?"

"You lost against my brother," Cora reminds him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Most guys aren't feeling too hot after that."

"Minho and him are buddies, aren't they?" He points out, frowning. "You're telling me that'll change because he lost last night?"

"Minho didn't race to win last night," she says, cocking an eyebrow. "He's not stupid."

Stiles scoffs.

"Why would he pay 2,000 dollars if he knew he was gonna lose?"

Cora sighs softly, leaning her forearms on the bar disk to mirror him.

"As you may have noticed," she says, "Derek is a pretty big deal around here. Some people consider just racing against him a merit."

"That's a pretty expensive merit," Stiles remarks.

Cora tilts her head to the side. A smile is still tugging at the corner of her lips, but it's a lot nicer than before.

"You don't think it was worth it?"

Stiles opens his mouth to say no, but stops himself as he recalls the ten seconds he'd spent behind the wheel of the Eclipse, passing Minho's Mazda and the Toyota in a blur of colors. He thinks back on how he'd driven with sheer muscle memory, the young rebel inside of him brought back to the surface. To race. To win. And even though he came in second place, the thrill had still felt the same as back then.

"I'd be lying if I said no," he eventually admits, voice low as if sharing a secret.

Which he probably is, Stiles realizes, but barely gets the chance to panic properly before Cora gives him a warm and _reassuring_ smile. As if she knows he just admitted something to himself that he should be ashamed of.

"He's not here?" he asks then, trying to sound nonchalant. "Derek?"

The name feels weird on his tongue, having grown so used to just using the surname. It feels _intimate_.

Cora shakes her head, leaning back on her chair.

"He's over at the auto shop, working on Jackson's car."

"Ah," Stiles nods. "Fuel map, was it?"

She nods while studying him for a moment. It's rather unnerving.

"He wants to invite you for dinner."

Stiles blinks.

"What," he says flatly.

"Dinner," Cora repeats. "It's this thing where you stuff your face in the afternoon."

"Yeah, I know what—" He rolls her eyes at her smirk. "I'm just— Did you just invite me for dinner?"

"No, I said my brother wants to."

"Right," Stiles drawls. "And he's—"

"In the garage, yes."

"Okay," he nods slowly, unsure whether he's reading the hint right.

She sighs exaggeratedly and fixes him with a stare.

"Do you need me to draw you a map?"

"An address will do fine," Stiles assures, heart skipping a wild beat as he hurries to dig up his phone. "I'll call a cab."

 

 

 

 

The auto shop, as it turns out, is only a couple blocks from the market, but Stiles doesn't feel like walking in this heat. Having missed breakfast thanks to Allison's arrest, he convinces Cora not to shoo him off before she's served him coffee and something eatable. She makes him a tuna sandwich, saying it's on the house, and one bite in he understands why.

It's the most disgusting sandwich he's ever had.

He takes a cab, well aware of how much McCall will appreciate it. The shop is at the center of a small street, squeezed in between two other shops, and doesn't look like much from the outside. The open garage door looks more like a back door than a main entrance, and the only reason Stiles isn't convinced Cora gave him the wrong address is because of the two blue, plain letters painted on the wall.

_D.H._

Apparently that's the only advertising this guy needs.

Stiles can hear music playing from inside the garage as he draws closer, the sound harsh and flat from where it's trapped between concrete walls. He ducks under the half-closed garage door. It's been a while since he's been inside an auto shop, and Stiles can't deny the familiarity coming over him as soon as the smell of gasoline reaches his nostrils. The floor is of the same gray concrete as the walls, but is covered in layers of tire tracks and oil stains. It's big enough to fit three cars, each work area equipped with cluttered shelves of tools. The spot closest to the door is empty, an engine crane standing where the car would go as if someone just wanted it out of the way. Which is justified, considering how stacks of tires and other car parts take up nearly every flat surface there is.

The music is playing from the work station in the back, so Stiles heads over there. At first he only sees the parked Porsche with its hood popped, but then he spots two legs sticking out from underneath the car chassis levitating a few feet above the ground. For a moment he thinks Hale hasn't heard him approach thanks to the music, but quickly realizes that he must have; that sound really is terrible. Unless the guy can tell someone's footsteps apart, however, there's no way he can know _who_ just walked into his shop. Stiles stops on a respectable distance from Hale's feet and slides both hands into his pockets, tilting his head to the side with a smirk working its way onto his lips.

"I gotta say," he begins, the whine of a wrench stopping at the sound of his voice, "gearing up cars suits you a lot better than selling groceries."

There's a pause, and then there's a huff heard from below. A hand covered in grease reaches down to grab the edge of the bumper in order to pull the roller board out from under the car. Two seconds later Stiles is looking down at Hale who's lying on his back at ground level, eying him up with what looks like amusement.

"It suits my sister better, too," he says simply, sitting up and moving the wrench from one hand to the other before making to stand.

Stiles instinctively takes a step back as Hale rises to his full length, suddenly presented with the man who nearly beat a man to death with a wrench much like the one currently in his hand. He's wearing a blue jumpsuit, pulled down to his waist with a tank top that's still mostly white clinging to his torso. Stiles doesn't let his playful smirk falter, however, ignoring the slightest hint of fear starting to form in his gut.

"I don't doubt it," he says truthfully. Hale huffs again, shaking his head as he walks over to a nearby table full of tools and puts the wrench down. Looking for a change of subject, Stiles nods to the car. "What are you working on?"

"Jackson's fuel map," Hale replies, grabbing a towel to try wipe the grease off his hands. "It's got a nasty hole."

"Do you fix all your teammates' cars for them?" Stiles asks, keeping his hands in his pocket as he moves to stand on the other side of the tool table. "I thought you all worked here together."

Hale scoffs, gaze fixed on his hands while still rubbing the cloth between his fingers.

"It's Saturday. Most people consider it a day of rest."

"But not you," Stiles observes, tilting his head to the side.

Hale looks up then, their eyes meeting for a moment in silence.

"I like to keep my hands busy," he simply says, face unreadable.

Stiles has no idea what to say to that, so he stays quiet while Hale finishes up with the towel and tosses it back on the table in front of him. Eyes locked with Stiles', he grips both its sides with his hands and shifts his weight over to one foot.

"Whatcha you doing here, kid?"

Ignoring the nickname, Stiles shrugs.

"Your sister tells me you want to invite me for dinner."

Hale frowns.

"That's a strange sentence," he remarks.

"It is," Stiles agrees. "You're not denying it though."

Hale shrugs with one muscular shoulder.

"Figured it'd be the humane thing to do," he says, "considering how you saved my ass last night."

Stiles smiles, unable to stop it. He's quite proud of that achievement.

"I'm surprised not more of your people jumped at the chance," he admits.

Hale arches a brow at him, looking amused.

"I think you're overestimating a racer's loyalty."

"Am I?" Stiles asks, knowing he has to be careful in this area. The interrogations with caught street racers is not something he should be aware of. "The way they all greeted you back at Terminal Street; the way they hollered at every word you said like you were preaching—you're telling me none of them would get themselves thrown in jail for you?"

Hale lifts his chin.

"Would you?"

The question throws him off, leaving him with lips parted but no idea how to respond. Is that a trick question? Is this a test? Stiles narrows his eyes but Hale doesn't even blink. His tone hadn't been distrustful or mocking, but genuine. Stiles hesitates for a long time, shifting in place.

"I don't know you," he finally says, voice flat.

"And yet you put your own ass on the line picking me up," Hale points out, tilting his head to the side. His voice is gravel-rough and perfectly calm, eyes still peering at him curiously. "I'm the last person in LA you want in your passenger seat when the pigs catch up to you."

"I didn't know that," Stiles scoffs, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Bullshit," Hale counters, making Stiles' whole body flush hot in panic. He even starts evaluating whether he'd make it out of the garage before Hale has the time to reach for one of the wrenches laid out in front of him—if he'd be able to outrun the bigger man—before he continues: "You said it yourself: that crowd would've agreed to every word I said. They would've worshipped you if I'd given them reason to. You saw how it all went down last night." He tilts his head back up. "You know exactly what a pain in the ass I must be to the cops."

Stiles desperately searches for the right answer, cursing McCall for not having a back-up plan for situations like this. Not that he's the right person to blame—Deaton has been the one in charge of setting everything up after the two-weeks long undercover training—but blaming McCall is much more satisfying.

"Maybe I'm just a nice guy," he suggests.

Hale hums, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a small smile. It looks strangely out of place on a man built like he is, and for some reason it makes Stiles feel accomplished.

"Jackson is a nice guy," Hale informs him. "You?" The smile grows a little sly. "I don't know yet."

Fighting the urge to protest, Stiles purses his lips and nods.

"Well, that dinner sounds like a great start to your investigation," he says, not wanting to sound too eager. "Just tell me when and where."

"Tomorrow," Hale replies in a heartbeat. "My house, five o'clock. We do barbeques every Sunday." There's a pause. "You got a girl?"

"Eh," Stiles blinks, taken by surprise. "No."

"Then don't bring one," Hale tells him, picking up a new wrench and walks back to lean over the Porsche's popped hood. "See you then, kid."

Stiles remains motionless for another moment, desperately trying to find a reason to linger, but it's obvious he's been dismissed. Hale gets back to working on the car as if Stiles wasn't still standing five feet behind him, so Stiles closes his mouth that'd been left open and turns to leave. He waits for Hale to call out after him like he'd done last night, but the working wrench is the only sound to be heard over the stereo.

He does, however, feel like he's being watched all the way back out on the street.

 

 

 

 

4 PM the following day, Stiles calls for a cab to take him downtown to East Kensington Road number 722. He'd called Allison last night, telling her about the invite, and this morning he'd received a call from Deaton who'd made sure he knew just what an opportunity it was to have been invited to Hale's own home. Not that it'd been necessary; Stiles is perfectly aware of what a big deal it is, which is why he steps out of the cab right before five o'clock with butterflies in his belly.

The long driveway is jammed by three cars parked in a tight line, with two more down by the pavement at the front of the house. Stiles recognizes Lahey's Honda—whose hood he'd gotten quite intimate with that day back at the market—as well as Reyes and Boyd's cars. Hale's Chevrolet is parked right outside the shaggy-looking garage in the lot's darkest corner, in front of another muscle car that Stiles can only assume belongs to Cora. Looks like the whole crew is here, which is no less than what he'd expected.

As he walks up the steps to knock on the door, he silently hopes the absence of Whittemore's Porsche means the guy couldn't make it rather than it still being in the auto shop. How long does it take one decent mechanic to fix a fuel map, anyway? Stiles wouldn't know; he's not a gear head.

Surprisingly, neither of the two Hales is the one opening the door for him, but the Lahey boy, wearing a long-sleeved shirt that looks way too hot for a day like this.

"O'Brien," he greets with a smirk, leaning against the door frame rather than inviting him inside. "Derek told us you might show up."

"I got the impression it was a solid invite," Stiles shrugs, offering a small smile.

Lahey returns it, and Stiles immediately decides he likes this kid a hundred times better than Whittemore. The teen studies him for a while longer before stepping aside and gesture for him to come inside.

"They're out back," he explains, leaving it to Stiles to close the door and follow him through the house.

It's not very big, and Stiles tries to take in as much of it as he can, doubting he'll ever be back here. Not that he expects the name of Morrell's killer  to be written across the living room's wallpaper, but still; he needs to learn all there is to know about Derek Hale. The idea of having a look inside the man's own bedroom is actually overwhelming. And perhaps just a little inappropriate.

 

 

He follows Lahey through the kitchen and out the back door that's propped open by someone's shoe shoved underneath. The garden is fairly overgrown, which makes perfect sense since Stiles can't picture either of the Hales mowing a lawn. A table is set up on the wild grass, a collection of non-matching chairs scattered around it. In one of them is Reyes, slouching back with her feet occupying another, eyes fixed on her phone. The Hale siblings are parked behind an old barrel grill covered in rust, and next to the garage Boyd is shooting hoops with Whittemore.

Stiles sighs internally.

"Yo," Lahey calls out to get everyone's attention. "Buster showed up."

Whittemore's scowl appears in no time, and Stiles finds himself amazed by how it hadn't been there seconds before. Boyd only spares him a glance before putting the basketball through the net like he'd been about to. Reyes looks up from her phone to give him a once-over, but looks right back down again. Cora is the only one doing more than just acknowledging him, leaving her brother by the burning grill to greet him properly.

"Glad you made it," she says, smiling like she's actually happy to see him.

Stiles slides both hands into his pockets.

"You need help with anything?" He asks, eyes flickering over to where Hale is turning the meat. "Setting the table?"

"That's Isaac's job," she tells him, giving Lahey a significant look as he groans and trudges over there. "You can give me a hand with the beer."

"Oh-kay," Stiles stutters, locking eyes with Hale for half a second before he's being dragged back inside the house.

There's another table in the kitchen—smaller, and with no chairs. Cora crouched down in front of the fridge before opening it, revealing beer bottles stacked in a big pyramid on the bottom shelf. Stiles can't help but scoff when he sees it.

"You guys live on beer or something?"

"Or something," Cora nods, starting to pass him bottles to put on the counter. "It's the only brand Derek drinks, so he stocks up."

Stiles frowns at the bottle of Corona in his hand.

"Seriously? It's pretty shit if you ask me."

Cora laughs, and Stiles finds himself surprised by how nice it sounds. How _kind_. As if it was Allison or Lydia laughing with him.

"Don't let him hear you say that," she warns him with a wink.

They empty the fridge of beer, Cora pushing the door closed and straightening back up. Stiles is worrying his bottom lip, and though he stops as soon as she's back at eye-level with him, she must notice something's off. She tilts her head to the side, leaning her hip against the counter as if waiting for him to speak. Stiles' heart skips a beat, hearing the tickling from a clock that must be nearby. Maybe in the living room.

"The other night," he begins quietly, "when I raced your brother; he didn't even try to get back to his car when the cops showed up, and you didn't hesitate to get behind the wheel."

It can't be what she'd expected him to say, because she blinks in surprise, waiting for him to go on. He doesn't.

"It's how we've agreed to do it," she says after a moment, volume matching Stiles'. "Better me than him."

Stiles frowns lightly.

"Why?"

Another silence follows, only the sound of muffled voices and the dribbling basketball to be heard from outside. Cora stays quiet for so long Stiles gives up on her answering at all. Once she does, her voice is carefully stripped of emotion.

"Because they'll send him back to prison."

Stiles feels the same weight in his chest he'd done that night with Hale in the Eclipse, when talking about Lompoc. It lasts longer than it had then—long enough for him to recognize it as _guilt_. It aggravates him; makes him feel weak and far from the agent he's supposed to be. He stubbornly pushes it down, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and nods once before they split the bottles to carry back outside.

Lahey has claimed his own set of chairs opposite Reyes, long legs stretched out. He unhooks one beer from Cora's fingers as she passes, earning a half-hearted glare. He just grins back at her, fondly, and Stiles finds himself smiling watching the exchange.

Hale is looking right at him when Stiles turns his gaze back to his corner of the yard, their eyes meeting through the heat waves above the grill.

"You mind bringing me one?"

Relieved for the ice breaker—even if it's something as simple as cheap beer—Stiles nods and uncaps two bottles from the table before making his way over there. Their fingers brush over the cold glass bottle, warm in contrast. He backs up to stand where he won't get the smoke in his face, sliding one hand into his pocket. They take their first sip in silence, Stiles almost tilting the bottle before it reaches his lips, too focused on watching Hale doing something as ordinary as drinking beer in his backyard. The taste is as plain as he remembers, but at least it's cold.

"Did you take a look at my Eclipse yet?"

Hale hums, smiling before swallowing. His gaze stays downcast while poking the meat.

"I did," he nods.

Stiles arches an eyebrow.

"And?"

Hale looks up, smirking.

"And you're lucky you didn't carry any NOS and blew yourself to pieces."

Stiles chuckles, changing his stance.

"Lucky me," he agrees sarcastically. "Losing my first race in town along with my only car."

"You made a poor choice in who to race for pink slips."

"What can I say?" Stiles shrugs. "I was eager."

Hale smiles into his beer bottle, and it makes something stir deep inside Stiles' gut. Pride, perhaps; because it seems like his recklessness and desire to prove himself did leave an impression after all.

"Where'd you get it?" Both their heads turn toward Boyd who's abandoned the basketball game to join them by the grill. "You built it?"

"Fuck, no," Stiles scoffs. "I'm good behind the wheel, not under the hood."

"That's debatable," mumbles Whittemore from the driveway, eyes on the hoop before tossing the ball clean through it.

Stiles ignores him.

"I won it in a race."

"Of course you did," Hale huffs, locking eyes with him over the label of his Corona.

There's a flutter in Stiles' chest, heat pooling in his belly at the way Hale is looking at him. He's not sure what it means. He's pretty sure it's partly fear, pictures of Peter Hale's tortured face flashing before his eyes, but there's more to it than that. From the moment they first met, he's always felt the urge to prove himself; to impress. Stiles could convince himself it's about wanting to do a good job, to win Hale over for sake of the case, but he knows that's not it.

Just like the night of the race, the man's mere presence seems to attract that competitive and reckless youth which Stiles fought so hard to lock up somewhere deep inside himself. When Hale looks at him, his eyes seem to say _challenge me_. And Stiles wants to. Every time.

"Is it your first car?" Boyd asks, pulling him back to reality. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Not my first," Stiles replies, "though the ones before were lousy compared to it. And I'm pretty sure Isaac is younger than me."

"Nineteen," announces Lahey, appearing at his side with a beer of his own.

"Twenty-two," Stiles counters, having to tilt his head back in order to look at him.

"So no jailbait, then," Boyd says, smirking at Hale who doesn't appear to notice. "Good to know."

Stiles snorts in pure shock, heat threatening to rise to his face.

"How is that relevant?" He asks, but goes on before anyone can answer. "Wait, you guys seriously thought I was underage?"

"No," Hale assures him, taking another swig of his beer. "I saw your license."

"I didn't," Boyd shrugs. "No offense, kid, but you look really young."

"None taken," Stiles sighs. "I've heard it all before."

"Okay," Cora suddenly announces with a clap of her hands, appearing at Lahey's side. "All boys who aren't managing the grill, go fetch the rest of the food from the kitchen. Don't forget the bread on the counter."

"That's not fair," Whittemore says even as he puts the ball aside. "Derek is _always_ managing the grill."

"And you know why," Boyd says, smirking at Stiles as he passes, as if wanting to let him in on some inside joke.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. That was _one_ time," Whittemore mutters, shoving Boyd in front of him.

"One time too many," Lahey grins.

Stiles smiles despite himself, letting Cora herd them back to the house.

 

 

 

 

Once they gather around the table with all the food—chicken, ribs, corn on the cob, potato salad, cornbread—squeezed in between the forest of Corona bottles and hot sauces, Stiles feels his stomach growl. He'd only had a quick lunch earlier today, too nervous about the afternoon to be able to eat properly, but it looks like his hunger finally caught up with him.

Lahey seems to agree, judging by how he reaches for the pile of ribs before even sitting his ass down. Stiles remembers what it was like to be a teenage boy, still growing and with a seemingly insatiable hunger. His dad used to shake his head at how he made a beeline for the fridge as soon as he came home from school, and scolded him again and again for drinking straight out of the container. He could easily picture Lahey doing the same thing, and Cora's tired glare to go with it.

It's not Cora who reacts to him digging into the food, however, but her brother. Hale gets an amused look on his face, throwing a glance around the table before pointing at Lahey who pauses mid-bite.

"First bite," he says. "Looks like you're the one saying grace."

Out of all the things Stiles had expected the gang leader to say, that wasn't one of them. He looks around the table, seeing the others nod and smile at Lahey who drops the rib back on his plate, looking like a kid who just got asked to clean his room. Stiles finds himself wondering if that's something that happens in this house, too.

Cora nudges his arm, and he suddenly realizes how everyone is joining hands. Dumbfounded, he accepts her offered hand and looks to his right, heart skipping a beat.

Hale holds out an open hand toward him, palm up. Stiles hesitates, gaze flickering up to the man's bare neck where the silver cross usually hangs. He remembers seeing it on most surveillance photos. He never thought it meant anything; never thought a man like Hale could believe in anything. Stiles finally looks up to meet Hale's eyes, steady and piercing, as if he knows exactly what just went through Stiles' head. As if daring him to comment.

Stiles swallows, reaching out to slide his hand into Hale's. The man's fingers close around his own, their eyes remaining locked for a moment longer before Hale bows his head down, closing his eyes. Around the table everyone else is doing the same thing. Stiles lowers his chin, but keeps his eyes open. There's a strange feeling somewhere deep inside him, and he desperately tries to swallow it down.

Lahey clears his throat, shifting in his seat while still holding onto Cora and Boyd's hands. He lets out an exaggerated breath.

"Oh mighty overseer," he begins, drawing a snorts out of Boyd. Seeming unfazed, he continues. "Thank you for Derek's skills on the grill. They're a lot better than Jackson's. I don't— _Ow!"_

Stiles didn't have to look over to know that Whittemore—sitting right across from Lahey—had kicked the boy under the table.

"Jackson," Hale warns, and it's said with much more bite than Stiles would've expected.

Whittemore instantly sags into his seat, mumbling an apology. Lahey, who seems far less upset over the interruption than Hale, keeps going.

"Thanks for having our beer on sale today. Thanks for making Cora forget to buy greens so I don't have to eat any." A wave of chuckles travels around the table, and Stiles finds himself being part of it. He's surprised by the light mood in what's supposed to be a prayer just as Lahey pauses, and the mood shifts. "Thanks for the nice weather. Thanks for all of us still being free. Thanks for another beautiful day with my family. Amen."

"Amen," Hale echoes before the rest of them, voice low.

Stiles absently joins in as Hale releases his hand. He stares at it for a moment, not sure what to do with it, before reaching for his beer.

"Let's eat," Erica says eagerly and throws herself at the cornbread.

 

 

Stiles sits back, letting his eyes travel around the table; watching the faces he'd had spread out on his floor only a few nights ago. None of them look like they do in those photos, their features lit up by soft smiles and a brilliant sun. He barely recognizes them.

"Stiles." He jerks at the sound of his name, looking up to see Lahey offering him the potato salad from across the table.

"Thanks," he says, smiling weakly as he accepts the bowl.

Food is being passed around the table to mild chatter and playful banter. Reyes is talking about good waves, but Stiles has no clue if she's referring to hair or water. Whittemore is asking Hale how soon he can pick up the Porsche from the shop. Boyd gets amusingly quiet as soon as he digs into the food, making a pleased noise with his mouth full of grilled meat. Stiles tries to take it all in and make mental notes for later, but even he is distracted by the good food.

"So, Stiles," Cora says a little later, corn cob in her hands. "What do you think of LA so far?"

"Hot and loud."

"I can't tell if that's a complaint of not," Reyes snorts.

"I haven't decided yet," Stiles smiles.

"This obviously raises the question where you're from," Cora tells him.

"Exeter," he replies, just fast enough. His heart skips a beat at the lie. "Up north. No beaches, no endless sun. Sometimes we even get snow for Christmas. There's mostly just woods."

"Small town?" Boyd asks between bites.

"Very," Stiles scoffs. "Everyone kind of knows everybody."

"That must suck," Reyes comments.

Stiles shrugs, chewing on his chicken.

"It's different," he agrees. "I think me and my buddies racing down the main street in the middle of the night was the sheriff department's biggest problem." The gang chuckle. Even Whittemore snorts, looking amused. It feels like a victory. "Nothing much ever happened there," Stiles explains, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Unlike here. Wasn't there a murder in these parts only recently?"

As soon as the question leaves his mouth, Stiles is convinced he's given himself away. His throat closes up, making it hard to swallow. The team pause slightly, neither of them seeming eager to answer. He wants to turn and look at Hale, wants to see the expression on his face upon Morrell's murder being mentioned, but doesn't trust himself to be subtle enough.

"Marin," Boyd eventually says, nodding slowly.

Stiles blinks, pulse quickening.

"You knew her?"

"Not exactly," Boyd shrugs, eyes on his food. "She was into racing so we saw her around sometimes. I think she had a thing for Duke."

"Ew," Cora expresses to Stiles' left. "Really?"

"Sure seemed like it, the way she dogged after him."

"Duke?" Stiles asks, playing clueless despite having read the man's file from cover to cover.

"He's an asshole," Hale rumbles, surprising him by answering.

"A highly respected asshole," Cora elaborates.

"If Marin was into Duke she must've had horrible taste in men, or people in general. She probably got involved with the wrong crowd," Reyes says, her tone suggesting she's done with the topic.

"Must be weird, though," Stiles presses on, thoughtfully, gaze dropped to his plate in an attempt to look nonchalant enough. "To see her around and then find out she's dead, I mean."

Boyd chuckles drily, but not unkindly.

"Kid," he says. "I get that a murder must be a big deal where you come from, a small community like that. But I've been through far worse than a local chick I never spoke to getting killed." He glances around the table. "I think we all have."

His words make Stiles feel uneasy, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. The gang returns to their meal.

"It sounds nice," Cora muses after a moment, looking over, "growing up in a small place like that."

Stiles sighs deeply.

"I don’t know," he says. "A lot of times it felt like living in a cage."

The next second he freezes, realizing he's going off script, and the confession is not O'Brien's but his own. He clenches his jaw, hot panic rushing through him before deciding he better just go with it. He swallows thickly.

"You ever done time?" Whittemore asks, actually sounding curious.

Surprised, Stiles looks over to Hale who casually meets his gaze, bringing another bottle of Corona to his lips. He hasn't told them.

"Yeah," he drawls, turning back to Whittemore. "Two years in juvie."

"Juvie doesn't count."

"Bullshit," Hale protests, earning everyone's attention. "Of course it counts. Being locked up anywhere for two years counts."

Stiles relaxes into his seat, a small and thankful smile appearing on his lips before he even registers it. Hale hesitates, but the corners of his mouth quirk upwards before they both look away. Stiles' heart is beating a little too fast, but he's confident it doesn't show on his face.

 

 

 

 

They finish dinner without mishaps on Stiles' part, conversations shifting gear to life in LA and—of course—racing. Stiles leans that the team often go surfing in Santa Monica, and thereby solving the waves mystery. He's never heard of this before, and wonders if the LAPD even knows they have other hobbies apart from terrorizing the streets at night. It seems like he's constantly picking up on things that are missing from their files, having to put mental post-it notes on every page in an attempt to stay organized. He has considered dedicating a wall back at the apartment to this; thinks about going full on Michael Scofield, connecting pictures and notes with colored strings.

He loses track of the time, caught by surprise when realizing the sun is hanging low in the sky and the garden is suddenly lit up by strings of party lights he hadn't noticed before, hanging in a blunt triangle between the house, garage and a tree. The meal is over, their chairs kicked back as they're still drinking beer and chatting mildly. The air is cooler now, soft and pleasant against Stiles' skin that's still not used to the southern heat. He doubts he'll remain pale much longer.

Lahey is put on dish-duty, disappearing into the house with as many plates as Cora dares to stack in his hands in one go. Whittemore retreats from the table soon thereafter as well, saying something about a soccer game on TV that goes completely over Stiles' head. He's never been into sports, though it probably could've done wonders for his excess energy and disastrous attention span back in high school. The girls leave the table to go sit in the tall grass, deeply engaged in their own conversation. Stiles almost asks if he can join them, finding himself enjoying Cora's company, but tactfully remains at the table with Hale and Boyd.

"So where's the Eclipse?" Stiles wonders, taking a big sip. The taste doesn't bother him as much anymore. "I can't help but notice it's not here."

"I'd say that's none of your business," Hale says kindly, arching an eyebrow.

Stiles chuckles, shaking his head.

"I guess not."

"Will you miss it?" Boyd asks.

Stiles shrugs.

"It was a nice ride," he says simply. "Not the best, sure, but it served me well."

"You got an ideal one? A dream car, maybe?"

"I don't know about dream car," Stiles huffs.

"Humor us," Hale suggests, tilting his head to the side and giving him _that look_ again.

Stiles chuckles softly, shifting in his seat. He bounces his beer bottle on his knee for a moment, giving it some thought.

"I like Skylines," he says eventually, breaking the settled silence. "Nissan. And Supras."

Hale hums, rolling his eyes lightly.

"Should have known you were lost to imports," he says, bringing a newly opened bottle to his lips. "Pretty boys usually are."

The snort that escapes Stiles is half shock, half disbelief.

"I guess this is where I make a pun about American muscle," he deadpans.

Boyd's laugh is so sudden and loud Cora and Reyes flinch at the sound of it, looking over with their eyebrows raised.

"Oh man," he sighs, grinning at Hale while gesturing to Stiles. "I like this one, Derek."

Stiles scoffs, not sure what else to do other than brush the whole thing off. In his belly butterflies are stirring. Hale just smiles, shaking his head at his friend and takes another swig of his Corona.

"How often do races like Friday night happen?" Stiles asks after a moment of silence, hoping to steer the conversation back on safe waters.

"Usually every weekend," Hale replies. "Sometimes two nights in a row."

"You need another dose?" Boyd smirks.

Stiles ducks his head, scoffing. He nods. When looking back up, Hale is studying him.

"If you think that was dope, wait till what happens at the end of the summer."

Stiles frowns at Boyd.

"And what's that?"

"Race Wars," Hale replies. "A legal race event about 80 miles north from here, out in the desert."

Stiles' eyebrows climb in disbelief.

"Legal?"

"Well, at least the cops know it's a thing," Boyd chuckles. "They see the flyers just like everyone else in the city, know we're out there going pedal to the metal. We have our own staff of security. They might not know how much money that's moving about, though," he admits.

"And you all race there?" Stiles assumes.

"No," Hale says simply.

"You ever heard of Palmdale?" Boyd asks, not giving him time to ponder. Stiles nods; it's an old quarter mile dragstrip more formally named LACR. It closed down back in 2007—the end of an era in drag race history. "Well, it's not like that," Boyd clarifies. "The reason more street racers aren't jumping at the chance of doing it legally is because raceways like Palmdale have all these rules to follow. What cars are allowed, what tires to use—even the drivers themselves have to be approved. And even if you do go through all that trouble, it's not the same as street racing. It's all too… _strict,_ " he decides, scoffing. "People from the street rarely do well on those tracks, not to mention the way they're treated."

"So what's so different about Race Wars?" Stiles wants to know, looking back to Hale in hope to engage him.

"Everything," Hale replies, smirk tugging at his mouth. "It's by racers, for racers. It's not a stadium, doesn't got bleachers. It's just a lot of open road in the middle of nowhere. We take our business off the streets, out of the city, and into the desert." He half-heartedly spreads his arms in triumph. "Everybody wins."

Stiles hums thoughtfully, curious to why no one's told him about this event till now. It sounds like something Deaton should know about.

"By racers?" He repeats.

Hale only nods, Boyd joining in.

"And it's become more than just racing duels," he explains. "It's like a festival, Friday to Sunday. People set up tents or even sleep in their cars."

Stiles pictures it for a moment—spending a weekend out in the desert with likeminded people and fast cars. His sixteen year old self would have given his left arm for that; or any other limb he'd be able to drive without.

"That sounds awesome," he says quietly, his whole body buzzing by the truth of it.

Hale and Boyd hums in agreement, and then silence reigns for one comfortable moment. Stiles gaze eventually falls to the stack of plates Lahey didn't manage to get with him earlier. Emptying his beer bottle, he stands from his chair and reaches for them.

"I'll bring these in for Isaac."

"You're supposed to be the guest," Hale remarks, cocking an eyebrow.

"The best kind," Stiles winks, hearing the two men chuckle behind him as he heads inside.

It's dim inside the house, most lights still switched off even after most of the daylight has gone. Stiles can hear the TV from somewhere further into the den, harsh voices of sports commentators and a distant chant from the bleachers. Lahey is in the kitchen, the only room that's properly lit. He looks over his shoulder from where he's standing by the sink when Stiles enters, flashing him a lopsided smile that softens upon seeing the plates in his hands.

"You didn't have to," he says, but sounds ridiculously grateful.

"I'm from a father-and-son kind of household," Stiles tells him, coming up to stand next to the boy. "I'm used to pulling my own weight."

Lahey hums quietly.

"I'm from one of those, too."

He reaches over to take the dirty plates off Stiles' hands, and first then does Stiles notice his long sleeves rolled up to his elbow, keeping them out of the water-filled sink. The sight of his bare arms makes him freeze, forcing Lahey to practically pry the dishes from his grip. It's not until he's sank them into the water he seems to realize what's caught Stiles' attention.

The boy's pale forearms are covered in scars; it looks like a five-year old drew on him with bright crayons, a mess of overlapping lines and circles, only the colors have faded overtime. Two dark, thick lines go around his wrists—right where Allison's handcuffs had dug into Stiles' own skin the day before. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, a coldness spreading from his gut. When looking up to catch Lahey's gaze, the confident young man he'd first seen at the market is gone—in his place the kid who ran away from home, and Stiles immediately hates himself for never asking _why._

"I don't— They're old," he stutters, hastily covering up again. "I'm not—"

Stiles thinks of how he probably doesn't hide his scars as much from the rest of the team, and must've forgotten there was someone else around. How he maybe can let his guard down in this house and walk around with his arms bare, trusting the others not to judge him for it. Like he must think Stiles is judging him right now.

"Hey," Stiles says, voice thick. He wants to reach out, wants to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but doubts it's a good idea. Instead he lifts his hands slightly in an attempt to look as non-threatening as possible, because the boy in front of him looks like a cornered animal about to flee. "I wasn't gonna say anything," he says calmly. "It's okay."

The corner of Lahey's mouth twitch at that last part, and Stiles wants to take it back as soon as it's out. A long moment goes by when the only noise is Whittemore's soccer game buzzing in the quiet house. Stiles desperately searches for the right thing to say. His first instinct is to blame the boy's father whom he presumably ran away from, but he knows he has no right to draw those conclusions. He has no clue to who or what left those marks, and while he could ask he knows it'd put Isaac in a difficult spot.

They don't know each other; Stiles O'Brien is just the new guy in town who did Derek Hale a favor. Lahey has no reason to wanna still spill stories about his private life. Being too curious will raise suspicion, too. _It's not your mission,_ he tells himself. It's said with McCall's voice inside his head.

"I should head home," Stiles finally says, breaking the heavy silence. "See you around, Isaac."

Lahey nods solemnly, gaze dropped back into the sink as Stiles steps back outside.

Outside the fresh air hits him, and he inhales deeply when making it down the steps. Cora and Reyes have joined the boys at the table, all of them looking up when he approaches. Cora got a warm smile on her face, and Stiles feels guilty for leaving.

"I better get going," he announces before either of them can say anything. "It's getting late."

"Are you sure?" Hale asks, looking slightly disappointed, but it might be Stiles' imagination.

"Yeah," he sighs, offering a weak smile. "Thanks for dinner. It was great."

"Thanks for saving my brother's ass," Cora returns, smiling broadly while Hale rolls his eyes.

Stiles scoffs despite himself, nodding as he backs up.

"I'll see you around," he tells them before turning around and walking down the driveway, reluctantly.

 

 

 

 

He doesn't see Hale's crew for several days, and despite it being his own choice to stay away from the market, the shop or the house where he could actually run into them, he can't help but fear they want nothing more to do with him. Perhaps they'll just smile politely next time he shows up. Perhaps Lahey told them how poorly he handled the sight of his scars and now they think he's an asshole. He _feels_ like an asshole. That was such a fuck-up.

Allison calls, of course, eager to hear how Sunday went. Stiles knows he should've been the one to call, should've been eager to share everything he learned that day, but truth is he'd been uneasy to. When the phone rings, he knows he's got no choice but to answer, or they'd send out someone to make sure he didn't get himself killed.

He's put on speaker, can easily imagine McCall standing by Allison's desk with his arms crossed and an impatient scowl on his face. Stiles tells them about Morrell being seen with Duke, about the team's involvement with Race Wars and how they apparently have barbecues every Sunday. He doesn't tell them about Cora driving the Chevrolet to protect her brother, or the grace being said before dinner. He doesn't tell them about slipping up and talking from the heart about growing up, or Hale standing up for him against Whittemore. He doesn't tell them about Lahey's scars, but he wants to. Wants to make sure whatever asshole did that to the boy didn't get away with it.

McCall tells him to press the team for more details about Morrell and her relationships, while Deaton asks him to be careful. The two men argue for a while during which Stiles rolls his eyes at the ceiling of his apartment. Allison is the one interrupting them in the end, and Stiles wishes they could all see his grin. He promises to ask more about Duke when he gets the chance, and they seem satisfied. Allison urges him, once again, to call Scott before ending the call. Stiles feels guilt tug at his insides, suddenly missing his best friend's company.

Scott is working regular hours, however, so Stiles knows it'd be a lost cause calling his cell in the early afternoon on a weekday. He tries calling Lydia, desperate to hear a familiar voice talk about something other than the case, but gets to voicemail. Groaning, he turns on the TV and goes to fetch some fruit that's about to go bad.

It's about an hour later when his undercover phone beeps, making him frown and reach for it hesitantly. It's a text from an unknown number.

**Come to the shop. –DH**

Stiles laughs in disbelief, reading the text over and over before even thinking of typing a reply.

**How'd you get this number?**

It takes a while before his phone beeps again; long enough for Stiles to lose all hope of Hale answering him at all.

**Told you I know a guy.**

Stiles pauses, suddenly worried. If Hale really does know someone who can work the web and its padlocks, his true identity might be in danger. Maybe that's what's he's coming to the shop for—to be confronted. He swallows, trying to shake the feeling and convince himself that he's being paranoid. That he's safe.

**When?**

**Now.**

He only hesitates for a short moment before calling a cab.

The door is fully pulled up this time, and voices can be heard over the music from inside. The Hale siblings are standing next to an engine without a car to go with it, Cora with a notebook in her hand. They turn their heads when he enters the cool garage, both of them smiling softly in greeting. Stiles lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Where've you been at?" Cora asks him almost accusingly. "I haven't seen you all week."

"Around," Stiles shrugs, heart jolting. He walks over to where they're standing, looking at Hale. "What's up?"

Before Hale can answer, Lahey appears.

"Is he here yet?"

He pauses when spotting Stiles, and their eyes meet for a brief moment of panic. Then Lahey looks away, directing his attention to Hale. They, too, share a look, and at this point Stiles is steeling himself to get the living crap beaten out of him.

"No," Hale says then, and it takes a moment before Stiles realizes it's an answer to Lahey's question.

Which confuses him, because _he_ is clearly already there. Frowning, he opens his mouth to ask just as the sound of a big car pulling up right outside the shop is heard, and they all snap their heads to the open garage door.

"But I bet that's him," Cora says, smile in her voice.

Stiles waits, expecting to see either Boyd or Whittemore appearing in one of their cars, but gets neither. Instead he hears the car switch to reverse, and watches as a tow truck backs up in front of the door. There's a car on the ramp, but none he would've expected to see in a repair shop. He's not even sure it should be called a car and not a car _wreckage_.

Lahey whistles appreciatively, which makes no fucking sense. Stiles looks to Hale who's already watching him, looking amused.

"What's this?" He asks.

Hale chuckles, just as the truck driver reveals himself to be Boyd and joins them inside. Even he is wearing a pleased smile.

"Take a closer look," Hale prompts him.

Stiles frowns, but draws closer to the parked car ramp. It's a red car—or it had been, once. Now it's just a discolored, dirty chassis with one door so badly bashed in it looks impossible to pry open. It looks like it was taken from a junkyard, probably having taken part in a car crash. But beneath the rusty steel and the ugly buckles, Stiles still recognizes the basic shape.

 

 

"It's a Toyota Supra," he mumbles.

Hale nods, coming up to stand next to him. He's wearing the blue jumpsuit properly this time, but its short-sleeved so his bare skin still brushes against Stiles' as he crosses his arms. It sends a shiver down Stiles' spine. He ignores it.

"It's yours," he says, nodding to the car. "Well, it will be, once it's done. I know it doesn't look like much now, but we'll fix it up. We'll all work on it," he says, gesturing to his crew members behind him with the shrug of a shoulder. "We'll order new parts. It'll be like new."

Stiles just stares at him.

"You're _giving me a car?_ Why?"

"I've seen you drive," Hale says, voice gravel-rough. "You got a heavy foot and you're not afraid of putting it to use. You can't do that without a car." He pauses for a second. "I want you on the team for Race Wars, so we can make some money off your ass."

Stiles blinks.

"You want me on the team."

"I was gonna ask Minho," Hale admits. "But you beat him. There's no reason I shouldn't want you."

"Right," Stiles says, prepared to wake up anytime now.

Hale huffs, playfully nudging him with his elbow as he turns back to the team. It's so unexpected that Stiles stays frozen for a moment before spinning back around, too. The members give him nods and smiles—even Isaac—before scattering, returning to the two cars awaiting their attention. Cora stuffs her notebook into a bag, appearing to be leaving. Stiles is just about to open his mouth to ask her something when Hale calls his name.

The guy is standing in the middle of the garage, wrench in his hand.

"You got a place to stay?"

Stiles' heart leaps, brain going haywire trying to come up with the best answer.

"If you call my friend's couch a place," he scoffs.

"There's a room in the back," Hale says, gesturing to what looks like an office further into the garage. "It's yours."

He turns away to head back to the Mustang in the second work station, and Stiles just stares after him. He sees Cora collecting her things in the corner of his eye, taking a detour right past him as she heads for the door.

"He owns you now," she tell him, a sly smile playing on her lips.

She's gone before he recovers enough to ask what that means.


End file.
